Heroes
by Ms-Figg
Summary: Two uninvited visitors confront Headmaster Snape and staff, then must stay at Hogwarts a few days. Hermione and Severus find themselves suddenly thrust in the middle of a 2000 year old war. And they thought Voldie was bad. A/U, OCs Advent Lemons and more!
1. Where the Hell are We?

**Chapter 1 Where the Hell are We?**

"Where are we going, Dahlia?" educator Artimus Rogue asked the sorceress as they rode through the forest.

He was dressed in black jeans, brown riding boots, a gray button up shirt, and a black traveling cloak. Dahlia was in a white beaded tunic, blue jeans and comfortable walking shoes. Her long brown hair was loose and tumbling over her shoulders. Both were riding horses and had their wands tucked into their waistbands.

The first rays of the sun were breaking over the horizon and they were approaching a glen where several puddles sparkled. The ever-present Fey were already there, cavorting and dancing, leprechauns playing fiddles, kobolds beating on drums, tiny fairies flitting about, and naked nymphs shaking their pert bottoms.

Dahlia slung her long brown hair back, and looked over her shoulder at him.

"I thought we'd visit England," she said with a smile. "We never go there."

Artimus snorted, rolling his dark eyes.

"We don't go there because it's 'bloody' boring," he growled. "And I hate tea. At least hot tea."

"There's more than tea in England," Dahlia replied with a smirk.

"Oh, I forgot about the bland food," the sorcerer replied, scowling.

"Listen, every time we travel, we don't have to be camping out in the middle of a jungle, or climbing some mountain or hunting something, Artimus. I want to see some culture," Dahlia said.

"I agree," Artimus' horse Steede chimed in, "it would be nice to go someplace where there wasn't something with fangs waiting to tear me apart."

"Steede, you've never come close to being eaten by anything," Artimus said to the black stallion. "Besides, Dahlia's horse never complains."

Steede's ears laid back as he looked at the beautiful white stallion running beside him with distaste.

"That's because he's not a horse. He's a construct. If he gets killed, Dahlia can just make him again. You don't have that luxury and neither do I, Artimus. It's easy to be fearless when you don't have to worry about dying," the familiar replied disdainfully.

"Aw, but Steede, you're fearless," Dahlia said soothingly.

"No. I'm courageous, not fearless. There's a difference. Anyway, I think going someplace that's actually civilized is a good idea. Thank you, Dahlia," Steede said as Artimus grumbled something under his breath.

Steede was feeling uncomfortable because Artimus didn't put on his leather girding with the spikes like he normally did. The horse always felt safe when he had that added protection. Without it, he felt rather naked. But today was supposed to be a day of pleasure. They weren't expecting to battle clerics. Still, the horse would have liked to have had his protection.

As they approached a puddle, the familiar shimmer that bridged the magical realm and the mundane world formed.

"I'll go first," Artimus said, passing Dahlia and disappearing through the shimmer. The sorceress followed.

They emerged on the other side, and Artimus reigned Steede in as Dahlia appeared beside him. They were in a forest. A rather dark one. It felt rather ominous.

"Hm, I wonder where we are," Dahlia asked.

A screech sounded from the right and Steede started, rearing slightly.

"Calm down, Steede," Artimus said, drawing his wand, his dark eyes scanning the dark woods.

"This forest is certainly forbidding," Dahlia breathed. "Let's find a way out."

"Stay close," Artimus said, goading the nervous Steede forward. Dahlia followed.

The forest was extremely dark, only flashes of blue appearing through the foliage overhead. Strange sounds, clicks and cries rang out as they moved through the trees. Steede's nostrils flared.

"I smell things," the horse neighed, "and they aren't Fey."

"Just stay calm, Steede. I've got you covered," Artimus said, absently patting his neck as his eyes shifted back and forth.

Dahlia constantly looked behind her. She had the feeling of being watched. Presently, the trees began to thin and the foliage give way to coarse grass. There was an outcrop of rocks ahead, with a rather large, dark fissure in the stone and they slowly walked toward it.

"I don't like the way this place smells," Steede said, whipping his head about nervously, "it smells like death."

Artimus didn't say anything, but it was quiet here. Very quiet as if nothing lived in the area. After the activity in the deeper woods, he found this rather strange. Dahlia rode beside him, her hazel eyes wide and shifting. The uneasy feeling she had in the forest was even worse here.

Suddenly something dropped from a tree, landing on Steede's neck. It was a rather large spider.

"Get it off me!" Steede cried, rearing and panicked as the spider scuttled over him.

Artimus smashed it, surprised when it let out a scream.

Dahlia blinked as the crushed carcass fell to the ground.

"Screaming spiders?" she said to Artimus, who wiped his leather riding glove on his black jeans.

"Strange. I've never heard of such a creature," Artimus said.

He held a doctorate in biology and was quite familiar with Entomology although technically spiders weren't insects, but arachnids.

"Is this England?" Dahlia asked him. "It doesn't seem like it."

Suddenly Steede neighed in terror, rearing fully now, his eyes wide and the whites showing, before he spun and took off, carrying Artimus with him and startling Dahlia's stallion into a run.

"Steede! What the hell is wrong with you?" Artimus cried, trying fruitlessly to bring the terrified horse to a stop as he flew through the trees. The sorcerer had to duck several times to keep from being dislodged by low limbs. Dahlia raced behind him, leaning low on her horse.

"Look behind us!" Steede screamed, his hooves flying.

Artimus looked behind him and his heart nearly stopped before he yelled at Steede to go faster.

They were being chased by enormous spiders. Fast ones.

"Shit!" Dahlia hissed as she dug her heels into her stallion's flanks. The beast leaped forward, catching up to Steede and Artimus, who were fully in the wind, Artimus' brown hair streaming, his cloak billowing behind him as the spiders pursued.

Dahlia could only think that the little spider's death cry had called his brothers. And what big brothers they were.

Why did she ever say she wanted to visit England? The Serengeti would have been much safer! But . . . this couldn't be England. There were no spiders like this in the normal world or in the magical realm.

Where the hell were they?

Hagrid was busily sweeping out his hut with an oversized broom, dust filling the air and landing in his whiskery beard. He sneezed, and waved the cloud of motes away from him. He turned and looked at the floor of his domicile.

"That ought ta last a few weeks," he said, placing the broom inside, walking down the steps and thumping his chest with both huge fists, breathing in the crisp morning air. He smiled as he watched a few students circle the turrets of Hogwarts on brooms, led by Madam Hooch. He scratched his head, causing a few Flitlicks to pop off of it, then turned to go back inside to get the day's lesson plan for his Care of Magical Creatures class when suddenly he heard the pounding of hoof beats coming from the forest behind his hut.

"Wots tha?" he said, scowling as he walked out a ways.

Suddenly Artimus and Dahlia burst from between the trees, flying past Hagrid in full run as if the devil himself was on their heels.

"Hey thar! Wot are yeh doing on Hogwarts grounds?" the half-giant called after them.

Both Artimus and Dahlia reined to a halt, wheeling around and studying the forest wide-eyed. The Acromantula didn't dare leave the Forbidden Forest and gave up the chase the moment the sorcerers emerged, heading back to their cave with empty mandibles. Both of them then looked at Hagrid.

"Cletus, he's huge!" Dahlia breathed as Hagrid trundled up to them frowning. He was almost the same height as Artimus on his horse. Steede nervously backed up. This was the biggest man he'd ever seen.

"Who let yeh in 'ere?" Hagrid demanded, eyeing the wands tucked in their waists.

"No one. We arrived at sunrise," Artimus said, frowning at the half-giant. "What are you?"

Hagrid was taken aback.

"Wot am I? You mean 'who' am I. I'm Hagrid and I teach 'ere at Hogwarts, and yeh got no business on the grounds! Yeh hafta be let in! Now, how'd yeh get in 'ere?" the half-giant growled.

"Hogwarts?" Artimus said, looking perplexed. "What's Hogwarts?"

Suddenly, he felt Dahlia tap him on the shoulder. He looked at her. She was staring at something, her full mouth partially open.

"I . . . I think that's Hogwarts," she said in amazement as she looked at the huge castle. "Are those people flying on . . . brooms?"

Artimus stared. Yes, there were people flying on brooms around the turrets. Brooms? Flying brooms were . . . were fairytales. This couldn't possibly be real . . . could it?

Hagrid blinked at the both of them, realizing they didn't know what Hogwarts was.

"What kind of witch and wizard are yeh not to know 'bout Hogwarts?" the giant asked them. Both Artimus and Dahlia looked at him.

"We're not wizards or witches," Artimus informed him, looking back toward the castle.

"No, we're sorcerers," Dahlia said as Hagrid looked at both of them in amazement.

Sorcerers? At Hogwarts?

He was going to have to take them to Headmaster Snape.

He'd know what to do.

* * *

A/N: Well, this was an idea I came up with. Don't know if I'll pursue it, but I haven't been writing the past couple of days, and even this was a real effort.

A/N/N: A shout out and thanks to Duj, who gave me a list of Hagridisms. lol. Bless yer 'eart! :)


	2. A Grave Misunderstanding

**Chapter 2 A Grave Misunderstanding**

"All right, yeh two. Yer goin' ta hafta go see the Headmaster, Severus Snape," Hagrid said, holding out his huge hand, palm up, "hand over yer wands."

Artimus and Dahlia looked at the half-giant as if he had asked them for their heads.

"Our wands?" Dahlia responded, her hazel eyes narrowing. "No!"

"Listen, yeh haf ter give me yer wands, 'til we find out ifn yer friends or foes," Hagrid said, trying to be reasonable.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Artimus said, his eyes hard as diamond, "because we don't know if you or this Headmaster are our friends or foes. It wouldn't pay to be wandless if it's the latter."

Frowning, Hagrid backed up, pulling out his own wand. The right to use magic had been restored to him years ago, after he was cleared of opening the Chamber of Secrets.

"All right, we kin do this tha hard way," he growled as both Dahlia and Artimus quickly pulled out their own wands, dismounting. "And I tell yeh, it takes a lot of magic to bring me down. Yeh should jest give me yer wands."

Dahlia conjured her sword as did Artimus.

"This might make it a little easier . . . the bigger they are . . ." the sorcerer said.

Both Dahlia and Artimus were used to slipping spells. The clerics fired them at them all the time during battle.

Hagrid stared at both of them. Dahlia was about five foot seven, with a very tan complexion, broad nose and full mouth. She was no petite woman, weighing in at one hundred and sixty-five pounds. She had wide hips and a plump bottom even her tunic couldn't hide. But she was in excellent shape. She had to be. She was one of the Protectors.

Artimus was six-feet tall, weighing in at about one hundred and ninety-five pounds, broad-shoulders, well-muscled and fast as lightning when he needed to be. He was no Protector, but he'd had more than his share of battling clerics, having even been taken by them on several occasions. To date, he was the only sorcerer who had ever escaped their holy city alive.

"Swords?" Hagrid said, "yeh'd do better wit wands. Incarcerous!"

Both sorcerer and sorceress spun out of the way as ropes shot out of the tip of Hagrid's wand and flew writhing past them.

Dahlia stared at the giant.

"What kind of magic is that?" she asked him as Artimus attempted to rush Hagrid while he was distracted, but the wizard turned his wand on him.

"Expelliamus!" Hagrid cried, blasting Artimus.

The sorcerer stopped running forward for a moment, but didn't fly backwards and still retained a hold on his sword.

Hagrid blinked at him.

"Yeh should be on yer arse!" the bewildered giant said to Artimus, who merely looked aggravated at being thwarted.

Dahlia ran around Hagrid so she was behind him, and Hagrid turned his body as he stood in the middle of both tresspassers, looking from one to the other. Artimus eyed Dahlia who nodded slightly, making her sword disappear. Artimus did likewise.

"Good ter see yeh come to yer senses," Hagrid said as the weapons disappeared, "now . . . jest give me yer wands and we kin go . . ."

He was looking at Artimus because he was the one the giant was most wary of, being he was a man.

Not wise.

Suddenly, Dahlia rushed forward, dropping on her hands and knees behind Hagrid, who looked down as he felt her against his lower legs. She didn't come near his calves.

"Hey now!" he yelled reaching for her as Artimus ran at him full speed, leapt off the ground and kicked him in the chest with both feet, throwing him off balance. His arms whirling for a moment, Hagrid fell over Dahlia and hit the ground as if cut down off a beanstalk.

"Stone!" Artimus cried and a boulder appeared on the giant's chest pinning him down as Dahlia quickly snatched his wand out of his hand. Hagrid was down for the count.

"Hey! Tha weren't cricket!" the struggling giant cried, trying to push the stone off him. It wasn't a huge stone, but Hagrid couldn't budge it, try as he might.

"You're damn right it wasn't cricket," Artimus replied, dusting himself off. "Where I come from, partner, we play baseball."

Steede walked up.

"Let's try and get out of here," the horse said, looking about.

"Good idea," Dahlia said, swinging up on to the white horse and Artimus mounting Steede.

Hagrid struggled with the stone, not understanding why he couldn't push it off of himself. Dahlia tossed his wand down close to him, but not close enough where he could reach it.

"Hey! Yeh not jes goin ter leave me 'ere like this?" Hagrid said to the pair as Artimus wheeled Steede around, and looked down at the pinned wizard.

"What? Do you mean breathing?" he asked with a wicked smirk.

"Artimus! Just come on," Dahlia said to him, frowning.

Dahlia hated violence, but found it to be a necessary evil. Still, the big man was down and pinned and couldn't do anything to them until he got the boulder off. He'd have a time doing it, considering it was made of Ununoctium, also known as "No. 118," the heaviest substance known to man. In the real world, scientists could only create the substance for a thousandth of a second by bombarding californium with calcium ions, but a sorcerer with a good grasp of nuclear physics could recreate it for a short period of time. Short enough to get away that is. It would eventually fade and free the half-giant.

Dahlia and Artimus planned to be long gone when that happened.

They took off across the grounds of Hogwarts, not noticing the broom riders had all disappeared. That was because Madam Hooch saw the face-off and went to inform the Headmaster immediately.

Artimus and Dahlia soon found there was a fence that ran the entire perimeter of the grounds which was quite large. They managed to find a gate and Artimus attempted to unlatch it with his wand, but couldn't get it to open. Then he conjured a chain and hooked both Steede and the stallion to the gate, hoping they could pull it open, but that didn't work either.

"Maybe we could climb over," Dahlia suggested.

"What do you mean, climb over? What about me?" Steede said, "I can't climb and it's too high to jump. And even if I managed not to get caught by sunset and found a puddle, I can't go through without you, Artimus."

The white stallion wasn't the least bit concerned. He'd be dissolving at the end of the day, and if he were killed, he'd still come back the next time Dahlia needed him, not that he understood any of the conversation anyway. He was a construct, but as much a horse as the next one. Steede was an intelligent familiar, but for some reason, he couldn't pass through shimmers. Artimus thought he was an accident of nature rather than a magical creature. He had acquired him years ago, keeping him from being slaughtered by his angry owner who had put out a large amount of money to put on a show featuring his talking horse.

Steede got stage fright and wouldn't say a word, making the man a laughingstock. Artimus rescued him after hearing the horse scream for help in English. He'd been out hunting rabbits in Montana. He lost his catch in the process.

"We're not going to leave you, Steede," Artimus said as he made the chains disappear and mounted him. "But we're going to have to go back into that forest . . ."

"I'm afraid you won't be going anyplace," a silken voice purred.

Both Dahlia and Artimus spun to see a tall, gaunt looking wizard with lank black hair, narrowed, glinting black eyes, a huge, hawkish nose and thin, slightly downturned mouth addressing them. He wore severe black robes with a large number of fasteners. He had his wand drawn, resting on them. Dahlia couldn't ever remember seeing a more sinister looking man.

Next to him, her brown eyes equally narrowed stood a short, attractive woman of about five-foot three with curling brown hair, also in black robes, wand held steadily on the pair. Behind them stood Hagrid as well a group of likewise dressed individuals, all with their wands drawn, their faces sober.

"As you can see," Severus Snape purred, "the odds are slightly better than two against one this time. I advise you both to drop your wands. Now. This is your first and last warning."

Artimus and Severus stared at each other, both sets of dark eyes glinting dangerously. Then Artimus looked at the rest of the group of Hogwarts teachers and reluctantly dropped his wand on the ground, clearly outnumbered.

Dahlia did likewise, her face stoic as she studied her captors.

Damn, they should have gone to the Serengeti like Artimus suggested.

"Bind their hands, Hagrid," Snape said, keeping his wand on Artimus.

Hermione focused on Dahlia, daring her to move. How dare they pin Hagrid to the ground with a stone? But she couldn't help being impressed by it and was just starting to examine it when it suddenly disappeared. She couldn't understand how a stone of that size could hold Hagrid down the way it did. She couldn't detect any magical spell and she was an expert at sniffing out dark magic.

Hagrid strode over and used his wand to bind Dahlia's and Artimus' hands behind their backs, then pushed them forward.

Suddenly Steede reared, whinnying, attempting to kick Hagrid with his front hooves.

"Stupefy!" Snape hissed, blasting the horse with a red light.

"No! Steede!" Dahlia cried as the horse fell heavily to the ground unconscious.

Even Hagrid looked upset. He loved animals, even if they were trying to kick his head off. Dahlia whirled on Snape, hatred in her eyes as she struggled against her bonds..

"You didn't have to kill him!" she said to the dark wizard, who quirked his lip at her unpleasantly.

"I didn't kill the animal. It's simply been knocked out. Hagrid will take both horses to the stables once he reawakens. You two will come with us," he said softly. "Now."

"Come on," Hermione said, gesturing with her wand for them to approach.

Dahlia looked back at the fallen Steede and saw Hagrid bent over him, stroking his head gently. It didn't seem as if he'd hurt him.

Both Artimus and Dahlia walked forward, passing Snape and Hermione to be surrounded by the rest of the staff. Hermione retrieved their wands, looking at them curiously as they all began walking toward the castle.

"Oh, and welcome to Hogwarts," Severus added.

* * *

A/N: Nice meeting there. Lol. I seem to be getting my groove and I think this is a good way to introduce my characters to my HG/SS readers. So I think I have one more HG/SS story left in me, even though it is a showcase story. That still shouldn't make it any less interesting. ;) Seems I'm suspending the novel for a bit. On another note, man, I should have made Hagrid talk plain English. He's hell to write dialogue-wise. I might have to look on the web for Hagrid-related stuff. Maybe there's something about the way he talks I can use.


	3. Quite a Few Differences

**Chapter 3 Quite a Few Differences**

As Artimus walked, he considered his situation, the individuals around him and above all, Hagrid's attack. How surprised the wizard . . . and that is what he must be, unbelievable as it was . . . seemed to be that the spell he shouted at him didn't knock him on his ass.

It was a strange word the giant shouted as he flicked his wand at him.

Expelliarmus.

Artimus could kind of understand the root word of it . . . the expel part anyway. Although the spell temporarily stopped his advance, it didn't work on him the way expected.

And the "Incarcerous" spell, where ropes flew out the wizard's wand tip to tie them up or incarcerate them on their feet. The ropes didn't come into contact with them, but he did feel the spell. Would it have worked if it had connected? And if so . . . for how long?

Artimus subtly tested his bindings. They too had been applied by this strange magic. He heard the giant pronounce the word "Bindus" and felt the ropes wrap around his wrists immediately.

Artimus' eyes narrowed. Perhaps . . . perhaps that magic wouldn't work as supposed either. How long had they been walking? Five minutes?

He looked over at Dahlia. She was looking straight ahead, but he could tell by the crease between her brows that she was thinking too, quite possibly the same thing he was.

In their experience, creation worked by the rule of seven. Sorcerers couldn't create what they didn't know. For example, for a sorcerer to do what . . . the one called Hagrid did . . . make ropes, the sorcerer would have to know all about rope making. Whether it was of natural fibers or synthetic, they had to know the entire process from harvesting or processing, to preparing, to twisting, to the finished product. They didn't actually have to be able to make a rope by hand, but they did have to be able to visualize the physical creation of that rope in order to make it. And then, it would be temporary, not able to last more than seven days although a skilled sorcerer could fix the duration to be less. The rule of seven worked on everything. Inanimate and animate objects as well, such as living constructs. There were deeper implications as well and more rules concerning seven, but Artimus wasn't concerned with that now.

Hagrid most likely didn't know the process when he created the ropes that bound him and Dahlia. His kind of magic worked differently. He could just . . . create without deeper knowledge.

But . . . would that magic work on someone who had different magical rules? Artimus thought not, at least not perfectly judging by the way the earlier spell worked. But yet, the dark wizard who knocked Steede out was able to use his magic on the horse to proper effect.

But Steede wasn't magical. He was an ordinary horse with an extraordinary gift.

Was it six minutes now?

Artimus looked toward Dahlia again, cutting his eyes slightly back and down, then slowly extending his fingers, one after the other, stopping at seven. Dahlia did her best to look ahead.

Behind them, Snape watched Artimus' signal to the woman beside him and quickly walked forward, jabbing his wand into the sorcerer's lower back.

"Whatever it is you are attempting to do, I suggest you don't do it," the wizard said tightly, his voice soft and dangerous. "There are more of us than there are of you, and I believe if you could do wandless magic, you would have already utilized it. So . . . don't do anything stupid."

Snape's wand was just above Artimus' wrists when the bindings disappeared, and the sorcerer grabbed it by the tip, suddenly spinning, his hands free as Snape's eyes widened in surprise.

On the other side, Dahlia was also loose, and she was tossing the staff members away from her like rag dolls as Snape and Artimus wrestled desperately. Hermione pointed her wand at Dahlia first as Madame Hooch and Sybil Trelawney went flying. Dahlia wasn't actually hitting them, just tossing whoever touched her off of her rather painfully.

"Stupefy!" Hermione yelled, hitting the sorceress with the stunning hex.

Nothing happened and Dahlia was free for a moment, before she was hit with several more stunners and even a "Reducto" cast by an irate Sybil intent on blood.

Still nothing happened.

From a distance Hagrid heard the witch's yell and the ensuing bedlam. .

"Tha's "Ermione! Be right back!" he said to the unconscious horse, taking off at a run across the grounds in the direction of the noise. Hagrid was big, but when he needed to . . . the half-giant could run. Now he could see robes tangling and staff members flying. The wizard chugged across the grounds like the Hogwarts Express.

Severus and Artimus were still wrestling, spinning in place, evenly matched, tangling each others' arms and legs up so no blows could be thrown. Sinistra, Vector and Flitwick were casting stunners at Artimus with the same results.

No results.

Suddenly Dahlia leapt on Severus' back, trying to tear him away from Artimus as everyone continued to try to disable them by magic. Hermione threw her wand down and grabbed at Dahlia's long hair, pulling on it hard.

Hermione really didn't know how to fight well physically, but no one was going to just beat up on her man.

"Ow!" Dahlia yelled, trying to grab Hermione with one hand as she pulled on Severus' throat with the other.

Finally Hagrid arrived, barreled in, snatched Artimus from Severus and put him into a terrible bear hug. Artimus was winded and couldn't break the giant's iron hold. He began to wheeze, turning red, then purple as he couldn't draw breath.

Dahlia grabbed Hermione, locked her arm around her throat and pressed one hand against the side of her head, bending it painfully at an awkward angle.

"I'll break her fucking neck! I swear! Put him down. Now!" Dahlia hissed, her broad nostrils flared so they looked even broader.

This wasn't Dahlia's usual mode of operation. Threatening to take a life was completely out of character for the sorceress, but desperate situations called for desperate actions. She was prepared to do what she had to in order to save herself and Artimus.

"Hagrid, put him down," Snape ordered, his black eyes on Dahlia and the witch he cared for.

Hagrid gave Artimus one more squeeze and dropped him on the ground. The sorcerer gasped for air, his head between his legs for a moment. No one moved. It was clear their spells were ineffective on these two, which was unbelievable.

"Back away from him," Dahlia said to Hagrid, "back the fuck up!"

She pushed Hermione's head a bit and the witch let out a painful cry.

Hagrid reluctantly backed up and Dahlia walked over to Artimus, half dragging Hermione with her.

"Are you all right?" she asked the sorcerer softly.

Artimus drew in a final deep breath, stood up and glared at Hagrid for a moment, then looked around at everyone. The staff all looked absolutely murderous, Trelawney's scarves in tatters and one lens of her large glasses was cracked. Madam Sprout was holding her back. Dahlia had flipped her completely over on to her back, and the rounded witch wasn't meant for that kind of treatment. But she had grabbed Dahlia so she got what she got. Madam Hooch limped noticeably, her ankle apparently twisted from landing wrong.

"I've been better," he said shortly, "who's got our wands? Give them here."

"I do," Hermione rasped.

With Severus watching him, Artimus rummaged through Hermione's robes pocket and produced the wands. He immediately conjured his sword. Dahlia released Hermione, pushing her hard into Severus who caught her, his eyes glinting as the sorceress also created a sword and tucked her wand into her waistband.

"I think the odds just got better," Artimus said to Snape, his eyes narrowed.

Snape considered the situation. He knew how to use a sword quite well, but none of the others did. They counted on magic. It seemed that their magic was ineffective against the two sorcerers, although he didn't understand why. It had to have something to do with the sorcerer counting out seven fingers.

"Imperio!" Madam Hooch suddenly cried, pointing her wand at Dahlia, her golden eyes full of malice.

Dahlia simply blinked at her.

"Oh damn," Madam Hooch said. "I was sure an Unforgivable would work."

"Maybe we should try the Killing Curse," Trelawney hissed, pissed about her scarves and glasses, her hair standing all over her head Phyllis Diller style.

"Tempting as it is, that would be murder, Sybil," Severus said in a low voice, "and besides, I doubt it would work on these two. There is something happening here. I believe negotiation is in order."

"Now you want to negotiate," Dahlia growled at him as Hermione looked at her hatefully. The big bitch had almost broken her neck. "Bring us our horses. How's that for negotiation? We just want to leave here . . . wherever here is."

She looked at Artimus quickly before turning her eyes back on her opponents.

"I'm never going to try to visit England again," she swore. "Some outing this turned out to be."

Snape considered this. So, they were on an outing? Perhaps they didn't mean to be on the grounds. The war had ended over a decade ago, but one couldn't be too careful. Snape was a lot like Alastor Moody had been. He believed in constant vigilance. Still, this was something to work with.

"You were on an outing?" he asked the sorceress.

"I just said that," Dahlia snapped back at him.

"How did you come to be here at Hogwarts?" he asked her, forcing himself to sound civil.

"Oh, NOW you want to politely ask questions," she said disparagingly.

"You have to consider that I found one of my staff members pinned to the ground by a boulder, the victim of an attack," Snape said. "Politeness was the last thing on my mind. If you hadn't attacked him . . ."

"We didn't attack him, he attacked us when we wouldn't hand over our wands to him. He tried to tie us up," Dahlia spat as she looked over at Hagrid, who shrugged.

"I couldn' let yeh in the castle armed, not knowin' wha; yeh were about," the half-giant said. "Yer could've been plannin' trouble fer all I know."

"Well, we weren't going to give a total stranger our wands," she snapped back at him, then looked directly at Snape.

"Would you have just handed over your wand in a strange place?" she asked him.

Snape studied her.

"No. I suppose I wouldn't," he responded.

Hermione didn't look quite so angry now, but she still rubbed her neck. It ached.

"Well, then maybe you can understand how we felt. We tried to leave and then, you come and capture us. What did you expect us to do? Go along peacefully? For all we knew, you planned to bleed us or something," Dahlia continued.

"Bleed you? What in the world are you talking about?" Hermione said, stepping forward a bit.

Artimus looked at Dahlia and shook his head slightly. He wasn't giving these people any more information than necessary.

Suddenly, a shrill whinny of pain sounded in the distance.

"That's Steede!" Artimus hissed, now brandishing his sword at Snape angrily.

"I swear, if anything is wrong with my horse . . ." he began as Hagrid took off at a run back across the grounds.

Dahlia looked after him, her head cocked. It seemed the big galoot had a real soft spot for animals if not people.

"Get out of my way," Artimus growled at the group, who parted as the sorcerer ran after Hagrid, his cloak billowing behind him.

Dahlia lowered her sword when she saw no one tried to stop him, then took off at a run behind him.

Snape, Hermione and the others watched them go, then Snape turned to his staff.

"All of you back inside. Whoever needs treatment at the infirmary, go," he said to them. "But I expect you all to conduct classes. A few bruises are no reason to shirk your duties."

No one dared complain to Snape about his attitude. After all, he was a wizard who used to teach class while still suffering the effects of the Cruciatus curse after being tortured by the Dark Lord. This was nothing compared to that.

As they turned toward the castle, it was clear to see they were all quite demoralized. Magic had always been something they could count on being there for them, but now, after two unarmed strangers withstood their worst . . . it was as if magic meant nothing. Slowly, they all departed, Hermione starting to go with them.

"Except you, Headmistress," Snape said to Hermione, placing one pale hand on her arm gently. She looked up at him and nodded, saying nothing.

Snape looked across the grounds at the people standing around Steede, who was on his feet, his right front leg held awkwardly. Artimus bent and ran his hands over the animal's leg, then let out a stream of obscenities, gesticulating at Hagrid wildly with both hands, the sword gone. Dahlia caught his arm as he turned back toward Severus, who looked at him calmly. He wrenched away.

"I believe we have a situation here," he said to Hermione as Artimus stalked back across the grounds toward them.

* * *

A/N: Wow. That was fun to write. ;) Thanks for reading.


	4. A Tentative Solution

**Chapter 4 A Tentative Solution**

"Artimus!" Dahlia called to the angry sorcerer as he walked toward Snape, fury in his eyes as they rested on the sallow wizard, who looked back at him, his arms folded, a small breeze whipping his robes about lightly.

"Artimus, wait!" Dahlia said, running to catch up to him and walking beside him, doing her best to be the voice of reason.

"He broke Steede's leg," the sorcerer said through gritted teeth.

"He didn't mean to, Artimus. He was trying to protect his own," the sorceress said.

Artimus stopped and whirled on Dahlia.

"And what do you think I'm supposed to do about that, Dahlia? Steede was trying to protect his own when he reared. He was trying to protect me, and he was injured because of that. Steede isn't just my horse, Dahlia. He's more than a horse to me. He's a companion, an ally and a friend," the sorcerer said angrily. "I'm not going to stand by and let someone injure him. Steede had no defense at all against that . . . that wizard!"

Artimus was beside himself. Steede's leg was not broken in just one place, but two. It had happened when he fell from Snape's stunner. It was difficult to mend a horse's leg under the best conditions and to be honest, bone injuries were the number one reason horses were put down because they just can't bear their weight on three legs. Even the most cared for horses were usually euthanized in situations like this.

Snape hadn't just mortally injured an animal; he had injured someone very dear to Artimus. The sorcerer was rather solitary except for Dahlia and his friend Marcus. Steede was like family, and you didn't fuck with family.

"Artimus, Hagrid said that they could fix his leg with magic, make him good as new," Dahlia said to the sorcerer as they drew closer to Snape, who continued to face the approaching sorcerer calmly. Hermione however, looked apprehensive.

Artimus grunted at this, but said nothing else until he walked up to Snape. He started to untie his cloak as Snape looked at him coldly. Artimus handed his cloak to Dahlia, who looked just as apprehensive as Hermione now.

"Now look you sorry bastard, you injured my horse. His leg is broken in two places and horses rarely recover from that. You've given him a death sentence," Artimus breathed. "That animal is important to me and you're going to pay for what you did to him. None of us asked for this. I don't know what kind of world this is where visitors are treated like criminals, but when I return to my own . . . I intend to carry some of your blood with me, Now . . . defend yourself, wizard!"

Artimus threw a punch at Snape, who slipped it easily, twisting his body so it didn't connect, then held up his pale hands.

"Before you commence to attempting to pummel me to death, please allow me to suggest something that will be less painful for both of us, Mr. . ."

"Mr. Sorcerer-Who's-Going-to-Kick-Your-Ass," Artimus hissed, but he didn't attack again.

"Whatever. Your horse can be treated by our medi-witch, Madam Pomfrey. Bone injuries can be fixed overnight in our world. Although our magic doesn't seem to work on you or . . ."

Here Snape looked at Dahlia consideringly.

". . . your lady, it does work on your horse, presumably because he is not a magical creature, but essentially a Muggle beast," the Headmaster said smoothly.

"What do you mean Muggle beast?" Artimus asked him, frowning blackly. It sounded like an insult.

"Merely a term we use for those without magic. If you allow us to treat him, I guarantee that he will be as good as new in a very short period of time. For humans, bone regeneration only takes twenty-four hours. I imagine it will take a bit more time for your horse since he is larger," Snape said as Dahlia's eyes rounded.

"You can heal a broken arm in a day?" she asked incredulously.

Hermione nodded.

"That's amazing. It takes a week for a broken arm to heal where we're from," Dahlia said.

"That's enough, Dahlia," Artimus snapped, not wanting to give the impression that wizard magic was stronger than sorcerer magic. Dahlia fell silent, but it was easy for Hermione to see that the woman wanted to know more. She seemed to be in her late twenties, and dressed like a Muggle. Her accent was definitely American.

Hermione wondered what her ethnic background was. She wasn't white, that was for certain although her brunette hair was completely straight and her skin tone tanned. She might have passed for a Sicilian except for her features.

"I'm not about to leave him in your care. We've already had a taste of your 'hospitality.'" Artimus said.

But he dropped his hands, hoping that they could indeed fix Steede's leg.

"You could stay at Hogwarts. We'll provide you with a room until he's healed," Hermione replied, hoping to stave off another altercation. Since magic didn't work on Artimus, Severus would be forced to fight him hand to hand and that wouldn't come out well on any level, no matter who won.

Artimus looked at her, then at Snape.

"I imagine a locked room with guards," the sorcerer said as Dahlia stiffened.

"No," Hermione said, then looked at Severus, who said nothing. It looked as if that's precisely what he intended to do.

"No," she said again more vehemently.

Snape's black eyes shifted toward her for a moment, then back at Artimus.

"You will both be treated as guests," the wizard said tightly, his eyes shifting to the wands tucked in both their waistbands. "But you will have 'guides' to take you about the castle if you wish to explore."

"Guides. Guards. Not much difference that I can see," Artimus said coldly.

Dahlia stepped in.

"Artimus, that sounds reasonable. If they came to Finklenook, they would have escorts as well," she said to him softly.

"Finklenook? What's that?" Hermione asked curiously.

Dahlia's hazel eyes washed over Hermione.

"It is an institute of Higher Magical Learning and Research," she replied, watching as Hermione's brown eyes lit up with excitement.

"A school? Where sorcerers are educated?" she pressed.

Hermione still loved learning about new things. A sorcerer's school was extremely interesting.

"No. You have to already be highly educated to enter Finklenook. A sorcerer must have at least two Masters Degrees to even be considered for acceptance. Most have more," Dahlia replied a bit loftily.

She was brilliant and knew it. But every undergrad at Finklenook was brilliant, which made competition to be noticed quite fierce.

"So how do sorcerers learn to do their magic?" Hermione asked, enthralled.

Artimus cut her off.

"We're not here for twenty questions. We just want to get my horse healed and to go home," he said to the witch pointedly. Then he looked back at Snape.

"All right. We'll stay here until you can repair the damage you've done to Steede. But I warn you, I won't stand for mistreatment. I've had enough of it. Next time, someone will be seriously hurt," Artimus said, meeting Snape's black eyes directly.

Snape nodded. He really did understand Artimus' anger. He would feel the same way if he found himself in a similar situation.

"Very well. The Headmistress will go and retrieve our medi-witch, Madame Pomfrey, and I will accompany you and your injured animal to the stables and wait to receive her. After that, we will see about your accommodations," the wizard said evenly.

Artimus nodded curtly and both Dahlia and Hermione breathed sighs of relief.

Dahlia looked at her lover and shook her head slowly. It was like being involved with Indiana Jones sometimes. At Finklenook, Artimus was an unassuming, rather even-tempered educator who taught Creation, his area of expertise the formation of biological constructs. He was in charge of the creation area, which consisted of a large number of differently sized rooms where living and inanimate forms were developed. He oversaw the development of the undergrads' projects and graded their success. He was also responsible for dissolving those creations that were imperfect before they animated if he could catch the errors.

Unlike golems in Hermione's world, sorcerer constructs were truly living creatures, with skeletal structures, nervous systems, digestive systems, the works. They interacted with the world as any other creature and could feel pain. One of Artimus' pet peeves was a poorly constructed creation. Crossing synapses, or improperly setting the muscular systems, or forgetting vital organs such as lungs or a heart caused the creatures great suffering, and usually Artimus was the one who had to witness the creation's pain and destroy it before it suffered too much.

He considered the erroneous construction of a creature as next to unforgivable and whoever was at fault could count on very severe punishments, such as loss of creation room privileges and expulsion from his class until they took several certified refresher courses in biology from accredited schools. This could take more than a year. And even then when the offender returned, he or she was put on probation.

But outside of Finklenook, Artimus seemed to live for challenge, mayhem and danger. He loved the outdoors and often traveled to wild, untamed places. He hunted, fished, and camped every chance he got. Luckily, Dahlia appreciated these activities as well, or she would rarely see him during his free time. He also enjoyed slaying clerics whenever he met them, an activity Dahlia also engaged in, but didn't enjoy at all.

She hated the War. The senseless killing. It was in direct conflict with her core beliefs. Basically, she was non-violent. Even her art, Aikido, reflected that. She only fought when she was attacked or to defend others. She preferred reason, but reason was in short supply when it came to the Antimage and his clerics. There was never parlay. Only attack after attack.

Dahlia was an undergrad at Finklenook and had degrees in Biology, Physics and Mathematics. She attended the institute for three years before she and Artimus had a "meeting of the minds" or "of the bodies" so to speak. They were both attracted to each other from the outset, but neither made any attempt to act on the attraction, both not willing to risk rejection. The circumstances of exactly how they got together were quite . . . interesting.

Interesting enough that Artimus was almost sure Dahlia would be the last woman he ever slept with, given her fighting skills and dead cleric count, which was the highest in the Protectors.

But, he survived.

"All right," Hermione said, looking at Dahlia longingly now. She wanted to talk to the sorceress, and find out more about her world. Maybe there would be an opportunity later. "I'm going to get Poppy."

She headed across the grounds toward the castle at a quick walk.

Snape, Artimus and Dahlia watched her for a moment, then turned and walked back toward Hagrid, Steede and the white stallion, who had been standing about looking dashing. Dahlia had gone heavy on the "noble steed" inclination in her initial development of the creature, and the horse would periodically paw dramatically, toss his mane around and rear on his hind legs, looking gorgeous.

Steede couldn't stand him.

Hagrid was on the right side of the horse, helping to support him with his shoulder.

"Thar, thar. Don' worry now. Poppy's goin' ter fix yeh right up. We haf' magic tha' mends bones," he said to the animal, stroking Steede's neck gently. "Yeh'll be good as new in no time."

Steede found the half-giant oddly soothing, although he didn't speak to him. He had learned a long time ago not to speak to strangers. They didn't always react in a good way. To everyone other than Artimus and Dahlia, he was just a regular horse.

Artimus walked up to Steede and looked at him worriedly for a moment, then petted his nose gently.

"They claim to have magic that will set your bones properly and quickly Steede," he said to the horse. "So Dahlia and I am going to stay here while they heal you. We aren't leaving you. Don't worry about that."

Steede nickered and pushed at Artimus' hand affectionately as Dahlia looked on.

Snape curled his lip at the display. He never understood people who talked to their animals as if they could understand them.

"I'm sure the horse appreciates you taking the time to explain the situation," Snape said in a somewhat withering tone.

He couldn't help it.

"Some animals understand better than others," Dahlia said as Artimus bristled.

"Yer right about tha' you are," Hagrid agreed. "Animals always knows wot yer saying to 'em."

Snape rolled his eyes. He hoped Hermione and Poppy would hurry. His nausea level was already approaching critical as he watched everyone fawning over the horse.

Good grindelows. The way the sorcerer was hovering over him, one might suspect they had an 'unnatural' relationship.

Snape's dark eyes drifted over Dahlia, who stood next to Artimus, cooing at the horse. No, it was obvious the sorcerer had a strong appreciation of woman flesh. As his eyes rested on her large, but rather curvaceous ass, Severus idly thought Dahlia certainly had plenty of that.

But there was no woman for him other than Hermione, who suited him perfectly physically, intellectually and even emotionally, giving him the affection that he needed, a need he still didn't acknowledge openly, although if she were to withhold it, it would be as if the sun went out.

He never wanted to live in such darkness again.

But Hermione loved him with such loyalty and fierceness, that he never need worry about that. Hermione had been the one to return to the Shrieking Shack before either Harry and found him still breathing, but nearly dead from blood loss. Using medi-witch spells she had learned in her private studies, she cleansed and healed the terrible wounds from Nagini's bite, then shared her blood with him through magical transfusion. They were found next to each other, weak and drawn, but alive. From that day she always told him they were bound by blood forever.

In the years that followed, Severus found that to be true, finding himself strongly attracted to the brilliant witch but never acting on it until Hermione confessed her own attraction after Minerva retired and he asked her to serve as Deputy Headmistress. At age twenty-five, she would be the youngest Deputy Headmistress in Hogwarts history. However, despite her own dismal record of being less than law-abiding at times, Hermione was a stickler for the rules, and to Severus, that made her perfect for the job.

They had been celebrating her acceptance in his office with a few firewhiskeys, the witch becoming more animated and Severus more enamored when she confessed her feelings for him in no uncertain terms, cinching it with a rather hot and unexpected kiss, which the former Potions Master accepted quite enthusiastically, as well as the ones that followed.

Needless to say they sealed their alliance with more than a handshake, Snape delighted to find out she was still a virgin at age twenty-five. He had never been any witch's first.

"I just never got around to it," she told him afterwards as they lay hot and sweaty in each other's arms.

"And that's my fortune," the wizard breathed, kissing her deeply.

They'd been together ever since.

Just as Severus felt the contents of his stomach were about to boil over, Hermione and Poppy appeared, walking toward them briskly.

"Thank Merlin," Severus sighed to himself.

Now they could get this matter out of the way and go about handling the rest of the situation. He had a two o'clock meeting with the Governor's board, which was never enjoyable. More than likely he would let Hermione make the arrangements for the sorcerers. He trusted her judgment.

Poppy walked up to Steede, carrying a small medical bag and her wand. Dressed in a blue cotton dress covered in a white apron with two large pockets in the front and a little white nurse's cap on her head and a sincere expression of concern on her face, Poppy was the epitome of kindness and empathy.

Dahlia liked her instantly, even if she was a witch.

"Oh you poor creature," she said to Steede softly as Artimus moved aside, to let her by. She petted his nose, her blue eyes glistening. "You must be in a lot of pain. Here."

She reached into her apron pocket and drew out several sugar cubes.

"Eat these," she said kindly, holding them up.

Artimus watched as Steede slowly ate the sugar cubes. The glazed look of pain disappeared from his eyes and the whites stopped showing.

Artimus looked at her in askance.

"Oh, the sugar cubes were treated with a powerful pain potion. He isn't in any distress right now, but we have to keep him off his leg," she said to the sorcerer as she bent and waved her wand over Steede's right leg, tsking as the blue light at the tip wavered, darkening as it passed over the broken areas.

"Oh my. His leg is broken in two places, and there's been some splintering as well. Hairline fractures throughout," she said straightening. She looked at Artimus who had gone ashen at her pronouncement.

"Don't worry," she said to him, "if he had to break his leg, he couldn't have done it in a better place, believe me. Because of the extensive damage, it's going to take about four days for him to heal completely, but he will heal," she assured him.

"But, how are you going to keep him off his leg?" Artimus asked her worriedly.

One of the main reasons horses didn't heal well from broken bones was because they were horses and their behavior wasn't conducive to healing. They would keep attempting to use the injured leg.

"Oh, I have an idea," she said obliquely.

* * *

"Aritmus! I feel ridiculous," Steede whinnied down at the sorcerer, who had a broad smile on his face. He was sure Steede would recover now. Poppy had set his leg and given him Skele-grow, binding the limb in a soft white cloth cast.

"It looks kind of comfortable to me, Steede," he chuckled.

Steede was suspended in a kind of heavy canvas body sling from the rafters of the Thestral stable, all four legs dangling in the air as he was held securely. There were openings in it so he could urinate and defecate, his refuse dropping to the floor below. A watering and feeding trough was magically suspended before him, if he became either hungry or thirsty, it would automatically move close enough for him to eat or drink, then move away when he was finished.

"This is humiliating," Steede snorted, swinging slightly.

"It's only for four days. Think of what the alternative could have been," Artimus said, sobering.

He'd almost lost Steede.

"The longest four days of my life," the horse said sullenly, "when I get better I'm going to kick that ugly wizard right in his ass for this."

"Just make sure we're leaving when you do," Artimus said to him with a smile.

Steede suddenly stiffened in his sling, falling silent as the ugly wizard in question glided in, looking at Artimus with a slightly amused expression, then up at Steede.

"Do you make it a habit of talking to animals as if they can understand you? Or do you just have a bit of a 'Dr. Doolittle' complex?" Snape purred at him. "There are therapists for that, you know."

"Are the accommodations ready?" Artimus snapped back at Snape, ignoring his jibe as Steede snorted down at them.

If only the Headmaster would move a bit more under him, the horse could very wetly and pungently show him just what he thought of his little comment.

"I believe so. Miss Joiner is waiting outside for you. I will escort you both back to the castle. Hagrid will care for your beast," Snape said, walking out the door.

"Beast? I'll beast him," Steede growled in a low voice.

"I'll see you later this evening Steede. I'm not going to trust your care to a stranger," Artimus reassured him.

"All right. I'll just hang around until then," Steede said, then showed his teeth at Artimus when he guffawed. Steede hadn't meant the pun and didn't find it amusing at all.

"Humans," he snorted to himself as Artimus exited the stable. "They have the most twisted sense of humor in the animal kingdom."

Dahlia was outside talking to Hagrid when Artimus exited. He had asked for time alone with Steede, and Dahlia left so the half-giant wouldn't feel alienated, although Artimus didn't give a damn how alienated the big bastard felt. He started all this trouble in the first place.

"Are you ready," she asked him softly, noticing how drawn Artimus looked. He had been very worried about Steede.

"For anything," Artimus said pointedly, looking at Snape with challenge in his eyes.

Snape sighed dismissively at his threat.

"Let us go," he said, striding across the grounds.

"I'll take good care of yer horse," Hagrid called after them. The white stallion nickered at Dahlia and nibbled on a bit of grass. By evening he'd be gone. She'd summon him back when she needed him next, probably in four days.

"Thanks Hagrid," Dahlia said warmly as they followed Snape at a distance, Artimus' eyes resting on the wizard before him and looking as if he'd like to tackle him.

"Hagrid's not so bad when he's not trying to get our wands," Dahlia said to Artimus, who snorted.

"I don't trust any of them, especially Snape. Even his name sounds like trouble. I'll just be glad when we can get back to Finklenook," the sorcerer replied, still glowering.

Dahlia walked beside him quietly. Maybe if he got a bit of rest, he'd feel better.

Personally, she couldn't wait to get a gander at Hogwarts.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading.


	5. Entering Hogwarts

** Chapter 5 Entering Hogwarts**

"Oh my Sons," Dahlia breathed as they approached Hogwarts.

The castle was a massive, somewhat scary-looking structure resting on a cliff overlooking a lake. It was constructed of a huge jumble of stone battlements and towers so sporadically placed that it didn't seem as if the structure should be able to stand on its own. There was also a rather sinister aura about the castle . . . as if it were haunted.

The grounds were extensive as the sorcerers knew when they tried to escape the area. The landscape was well taken care of, green and rich and they had seen flowerbeds, greenhouses, and large vegetable gardens (filled most with cabbages) as they rode about seeking an exit. An impressive but rather knobby willow tree was planted right in the middle of the grounds. Possibly to offer the students shade on sunny days.

They had ridden around the lake, following a road, but it was fenced on one side and also ended at a gate. A small railroad station was beyond it. They had to double back, passing what looked like a stadium set back in the distance, with a few smaller buildings scattered around it.

"Where are we exactly?" Dahlia asked Snape as she stared at the mountainous region beyond the castle

"In the mountains of Scotland," the Headmaster replied shortly, as if he didn't have any extra words to spare.

Dahlia was surprised at this. She'd expected to hear they were in some new magical reality, another land or at least another portion of the magical realm they hadn't yet discovered. But Scotland? How did they keep people from finding out about this place? It was too big not to be noticed, not to mention people clearly flying about on brooms.

The tabloids should be full of stories about a castle that housed wizards and witches.

Still, they were supposed to have been going to England.

Dahlia frowned at Artimus. He was the one who led them through the shimmer, probably wishing they were going someplace exciting, someplace other than "boring" England, unintentionally throwing them off course but still bringing them relatively near their destination. It was clear that the people here were English after all, speaking with that crisp, lofty diction. Well, at least he'd gotten that much right.

And if he wanted "excitement" he'd certainly found it.

Yep. This was all Artimus' fault. Dahlia narrowed her eyes at the silent wizard as they walked, Snape sweeping before them.

"We're in Scotland, Artimus," she said accusingly.

Artimus didn't look at her, but displeasure was evident in his profile.

"Really? I could have sworn we were in hell," he responded sullenly as Hogwarts loomed before them. Artimus scanned the premises, noticing there didn't seem to be any wiring leading to the castle.

Maybe the power lines were underground.

Dahlia sighed. The sorcerer was in too foul a mood to even browbeat so she focused on the castle again.

"How old is Hogwarts?" she asked Snape, looking at the many turrets and battlements. No one could have built it by hand. Magic had to be involved. A magic that could sustain itself for centuries it seemed.

"Over a thousand years old," Snape replied rather proudly.

Artimus scowled.

"That's not true. They didn't have stone structures in this area that long ago. They didn't have the skills to construct them," the educator said.

"They learned the skills after Hogwarts was built," the Headmaster replied. "Our founders were ahead of their time."

Artimus frowned. Was the wizard trying to tell him that the knowledge of how to build castles and churches came from them? Well, he supposed it could be possible. This place looked like something wizards would build. It's a miracle it didn't topple over, it was so haphazardly designed.

They walked up to the large double oak doors that led inside Hogwarts castle. Snape pushed them open and billowed through. Dahlia and Artimus followed him. The first thing Dahlia noticed was a rather tarnished suit of armor standing by the doors on her right. It matched the décor perfectly.

They were in the Entrance Hall, a large, cavernous room illuminated by torches, the ceiling so high that it nearly faded away into the distance. Before them was a large marble staircase, and youngsters dressed in robes with different colored ties, hurried through the Entrance Hall, apparently heading for their classes. On the right were two large doors that led into the Great Hall and next to them a smaller door. It looked like a closet.

On the right side of the main stairs was a stairwell that led down to the kitchens and the Hufflepuff common room. On the left were the stairs that led down to the dungeon area and Slytherin Common Room. On the right side was the corridor that led to the classrooms, and a door that led to a small antechamber.

The students' speed picked up considerably with the appearance of Headmaster Snape.

A distinct aura of panic filled the area as they rushed past, not giving the strangers a second glance. One moment of hesitation was all it took for the Headmaster to assign a detention or a very nasty chore for "lollygagging." The Entrance Hall was for passing through, not hanging about. If the students wanted to congregate, they could do it in the courtyard or their common rooms. Snape watched them flee with satisfaction.

Hermione walked up to them. She hadn't been noticed by Artimus or Dahlia because she was short enough to blend in with the younger Hogwarts population.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said, making a sweeping gesture with her hand.

Dahlia smiled, deciding to make the best of the situation, but Artimus looked about critically.

"Torches? Isn't this castle wired?" he asked Severus.

"No, it's not," the Headmaster said shortly, frowning slightly and not offering anything more.

But Hermione stepped in.

"We have no electricity or Muggle technology at Hogwarts because there's too much magic in the air. Electronic devices go completely haywire," Hermione said by way of explanation.

"You don't have Internet?" Dahlia asked incredulously, her hazel eyes round.

"Since the Internet is technology . . . Miss . . ." Snape said, hesitating for a moment.

"Joiner," Dahlia said.

"Since the Internet is technology, Miss Joiner, obviously we don't have it," he said with a hint of irritation. Hermione had just said there was no electricity at Hogwarts. He hated when people questioned the obvious. It was annoying and just plain bad manners.

Not that Snape had a monopoly on manners by a long shot. He was as rude as ever.

Dahlia sighed. She had hoped to send an email to her best friend and fellow Protector Gregory Cummings at Finklenook, informing him where she was and when she'd be back. She also wanted to check her Paypal account and see how sales at her online store were going. She and Gregory had turned a nice little profit the past few months.

Ah well, she'd just have to make the best of it although she felt a bit like she had stepped through a time warp.

"So what do you do for entertainment?" Dahlia asked Hermione, who was about to reply when Artimus answered.

"Based on how medieval this world appears to be, Dahlia, I imagine they have enormous feasts, hold tournaments, musical concerts and play board games, like the peons of old," he said, a slight, unpleasant smirk on his face. "Of course, there's also cave painting, beating sticks on stones and dancing naked around bonfires. I think witches are supposed to enjoy the latter activity."

Snape actually bristled at this last comment as Dahlia frowned at her lover. There was no need for him to be so insulting.

But Artimus didn't see it that way. These people had attacked them and injured his familiar. Because of their actions he was stuck in an unknown world without any amenities for the next four days. He had no reason to be civil as far as he was concerned.

"Yes we do those things, with the exception of painting cave walls, pounding rocks and dancing around bonfires," Hermione said tightly. "We do fine without technology, Mr . . ."

Artimus frowned at the witch, and Dahlia nudged him with her elbow.

"Rogue," he muttered.

"That figures," Snape said under his breath. Artimus cut his eyes at the pale wizard.

"Our magic more than makes up for the lack of electronic devices, Mr. Rogue. Besides, there are other ways to entertain oneself rather than sitting in front of some machine," Hermione said, frowning slightly.

Artimus looked around the Entrance Hall again.

"I'll just be glad to get back to civilization. You do have indoor plumbing don't you, or do we have to use chamber pots?" he asked her.

"Of course we have indoor plumbing!" Hermione snapped, reddening. "It was installed years ago. How could you even think we'd . . ."

"Is our room ready?" Dahlia asked Hermione quickly, trying to stave off what was going to probably be a very loud argument.

Artimus could make a saint mad if he gave it a good enough effort. One thing Dahlia didn't appreciate about the sorcerer was his predilection to purposely goad others into arguments, which he glibly labeled "debates."

"People don't yell in debates," she'd tell him pointedly as he grinned.

Hermione, who was scowling at Artimus, looked at Dahlia as if she'd never seen her before snapping out of it.

"Yes, it is," she said tartly.

Mr. Rogue was a prat. A total prat.

"Just follow me," the witch said.

"Miss Granger," Severus suddenly said. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you to see about our . . . guests. I have to prepare for a meeting with the Governors this afternoon. You will apprise me of the situation on my return."

"Yes, Headmaster," Hermione replied as Snape eyed Artimus.

"I trust you will conduct yourself as a proper guest in our domain, Mr. Rogue. Please follow the rules while you are here," he said to the sorcerer, a hint of iron beneath his statement.

Artimus caught the warning in his voice.

"You can trust us to conduct ourselves properly, despite how we were initially received, Mr. Snape," he replied, his eyes glittering, "as long as there's no further treachery on the part of you or your staff. To say I'm uncomfortable about staying here is an understatement."

"No more uncomfortable than having you stay here, Mr. Rogue," Snape replied, his eyes hard. "But we must all make the best of a difficult situation. I will see you at supper. Goodbye, Miss Joiner."

They watched as Snape billowed over to a very large fireplace rather than the stairs. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at the hearth.

"Incendio," he said quietly, and flames shot out the tip of his wand, igniting the charred wood resting there. The fire blazed brightly.

"It's not cold," Dahlia said, "Why is he lighting the fireplace?"

Snape reached into a box on the mantelpiece, drew out a handful of powder and cast it into the flames, which turned green.

"My office," he said, stepping into the flames and disappearing. After a few seconds, the fire's color returned to normal, then the flames flared and went out.

Artimus and Dahlia blinked. Snape's disappearance was almost like walking through a puddle, but a different catalyst. They looked at Hermione.

"That's the Floo. We use it for travel," the witch explained. "There's a network across Britain where fireplaces are interconnected. The ones here at Hogwarts are only linked locally so can't be traveled through to or from outside destinations, but they can be used to communicate with people in other locations, like telephones. Throwing the powder in connects you to the Floo Network, then you give your destination and step through. You're instantly taken there, provided you give the proper destination and pronounce it clearly. Traveling by Floo is much more limited than Apparition, but quite handy. Floo travel is regulated by the Floo Network Authority."

Dahlia and Artimus continued to blink at her, barely able to grasp this concept of transport. It was an amazing way to travel. And what was Apparition?

"I see I have a lot to learn about this world," Dahlia said as Artimus stared at the fireplace.

Sorcerers had no basic magical manner of instantaneous travel that could be used by everyone except for the puddles that served as a bridge between the mundane world and magical world at sunrise and sunset. Both worlds coexisted in the same space, just on different levels of reality and perception.

There was Psychic Transport that an individual could use to move between both destinations and realities, but the ability had to be learned by trial and error, and could be deadly during the attempt to develop the skill. Because of this danger, not many sorcerers practiced that magic, preferring not to take the risk of killing themselves just to get someplace faster. . Usually they utilized normal modes of travel, cars, planes, trains, animals and other conveyances like normal people although they did ride dragons from time to time.

Clearly, the Wizarding World had a one-up on their own as far as magic went. It was unfortunate that their rules of magic were so different than their own. The ability to instantly travel would have been a real aid in the war against the Antimage.

"I'll give you a copy of 'Hogwarts, a History' once I get you settled in. It's fascinating reading" Hermione said enthusiastically, remembering when she first read it. She couldn't put it down. "It'll help you get the gist of our world in a relatively short time."

"Thank you," Dahlia said to the witch.

Well, since there was no Internet, or television, she might as well read.

"Now where is our room?" Artimus asked Hermione impatiently.

He wanted some time and privacy so he could regroup and evaluate his situation. And he was getting one of his tension headaches. Dahlia would take care of it for him.

"Right this way," Hermione said, walking to the left of the large marble staircase, Dahlia and Artimus following.

A few furtive students appeared on the first floor landing, warily scanning about for Headmaster Snape before descending the stairs with relieved faces. They were all late for class, opting to run up the stairs than past the wizard when he first appeared in the hall.

Hermione descended a narrow, stone staircase to the lower level, followed by the sorcerers. It became quite cool immediately.

"Where are we?" Dahlia asked as she eyed the damp and ill-lit walls of the corridor.

"The dungeons," Hermione replied a bit apologetically. "You will be staying in Dungeon five."  


* * *

  
A/N: In this chapter I felt the need to lay out Hogwarts more realistically. I've never really done that before in any story but it was necessary in this one to show the strangeness and newness of the situation and give us a feel for where they are and what they see. The lack of technology had to be addressed, and I wanted to show just how impressive the magic in the HP world is. We kind of take it for granted now, but it really is amazing when it's considered. I'm sure Artimus will have plenty to say about being in the dungeons. Lol. We also get some idea of what it's like to have Snape for a Headmaster, based on the reaction of the students. Man, they hurried up and got out of the way. Rofl. Anyway, thanks for reading.


	6. Checking Out the Accommodations

**Chapter 6 Checking Out the Accommodations**

"Dungeons? You're keeping us in the dungeons?" Artimus asked Hermione disbelievingly.

Dahlia didn't say anything, but her eyes took on a glazed look as they walked down the cool stone corridor. There was plenty of space, but Dahlia felt as if the walls were closing in on her. She began to breathe a bit harder, fighting back the panic that always came over her when she was in enclosed, windowless places. She couldn't let this witch see her break down. She didn't want to show her weakness.

"Dungeon five is actually a little used classroom," Hermione said, trying to make it sound less horrible. "This area is where the art of Potions is taught by Professor Slughorn. I know it looks rather dismal here, but we don't have facilities for guests under normal circumstances."

This was true. During the Tri-wizard Tournament years ago, the students from the visiting schools of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons did not stay in the castle to sleep. The Bulgarian students slept on their ship and the young women from France reposed in their large carriage during their stay. They ate their meals in the castle and mingled with the students when they weren't in class, but were domiciled elsewhere.

"You mean to tell me in this huge castle there is no place for guests?" Artimus asked her.

Hermione shook her head, then brightened.

"Well, if after you see the room you decide you really can't stay there, possibly Miss Joiner could stay in my quarters and you can bunk down with the Headmaster, Mr. Rogue" she suggested, trying not to think of how terrible Severus' reaction would be to having the sorcerer in his quarters.

Artimus frowned and was about to say something completely scathing when Dahlia suddenly screamed and leapt into his arms, clinging to the sorcerer so tightly she was cutting off his air.

"What the fuck is that?" she screamed at a startled Hermione, one trembling finger pointing down the corridor as Artimus gasped for breath, trying to loosen her arms.

Floating up the hallway towards them was a translucent, glowing pearl-gray figure. It had horrible staring eyes, a gaunt face and wore robes stained with shining silver blood.

"Oh, that's the Bloody Baron. He's a ghost," Hermione replied as the Baron continued floating toward them.

Loosening Dahlia's death-grip, Artimus could breathe now, and watched the approaching specter as Dahlia hid her face in his shoulder.

"There are no such things as ghosts. All so-called ghosts are simply flashes of the past that we stumble into from time to time," he said evenly, although his blood was running a bit cold as the thing drew closer, slow and menacing.

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Mr. Rogue. At Hogwarts the ghosts are . . . interactive. They communicate with us and help protect the castle in times of trouble," Hermione replied as the terrible thing drifted closer and closer. "Actually the Bloody Baron is the one of the resident ghosts. He is linked to Slytherin House."

"There's more of them?" Dahlia asked in a muffled voice as the Baron stopped, bobbing in front of them like a pale balloon.

"Oh yes. There are at least twenty on the premises," Hermione answered.

"I don't do ghosts," Dahlia murmured. "Tell it to go away!"

Dahlia had a fear of ghosts deeply embedded in her psyche. She was of a very mixed ancestry, having a bit of everything in her from European to Native American to African and a few other ethnic groups sprinkled in. Whenever anyone asked her what her "race" was she'd respond, "Human" and leave it at that. But she had grown up on Mama Gigi's ghost stories, and despite what she had learned about specters in her studies, a part of her still feared them. And that fear was coming out in spades.

Seeing he had a captive, terrified audience, the Bloody Baron let out a low ghostly moan.

"OooOoooOOOoo!" the ghost intoned, flicking his staring eyes at Hermione for a moment, and smirking as Dahlia let out a terrified shriek against Artimus' shoulder.

Hermione swelled up indignantly. This was no way to treat guests!.

"Baron! Shame on you! Stop that and go about your business this instant!" Hermione scolded.

The Bloody Baron smiled. If one thought his deadpan expression horrendous, his smile was a thousand times worse. Well, he was satisfied. Hardly anyone at Hogwarts was afraid of ghosts since they were used to them. Scaring Dahlia had been a real treat. Hopefully she wet her pants.

The Baron drifted off, purposely passing through Artimus and Dahlia, who both shuddered as his icy coldness washed over them for a moment. Artimus turned just in time to see him slip into a wall and disappear.

"He's gone," he said to Dahlia softly. She was trembling in his arms.

Dahlia peeked around cautiously, her hazel eyes wet. Artimus gently stood her on the floor, concern in his eyes. Not much rattled the sorceress and he felt rather helpless and out of sorts to see her in such a state. Dahlia had never run from anything before.

Hermione studied at the five foot seven Protector as she looked around furtively for any further signs of ghosts. It was hard to believe this was the same woman who was flinging staff members around with impunity just a couple of hours before.

Well, everyone had weaknesses.

Hermione quickly decided she wouldn't tell Severus about this. Knowing the Headmaster, he'd set a contingent of ghosts outside Dahlia's room to keep her inside all four days of her stay.

He was like that.

"He's gone, Dahlia, and I'll put out the word that the ghosts are to avoid this part of the castle for the duration of your stay," Hermione said to her soothingly.

"They'll listen?" she asked Hermione uncertainly.

Steede's stable wasn't looking too bad as alternative housing at this point.

"Of course. I'm the Deputy Headmistress. The only other person whose word matters more is the Headmaster's. Don't worry, I'll take care of it. I promise," Hermione said to the sorceress, who relaxed.

Well, there was one good thing about meeting the Baron and that was Dahlia was no longer focused on how closed in the dungeons felt. One fear had temporarily negated the other. They walked further down the hall, passing Slughorn's office and then the Potions classroom itself. The door was open and Dahlia paused to peek in.

An elderly rotund wizard with a white walrus-like moustache stood in front of a large mahogany desk, apparently giving a lecture to the attentive students seated before him. There were only about twenty pupils sitting at long desks taking notes with long feathered quills, dipping them into inkwells from time to time. There hardly seemed to be enough light to write by.

The classroom itself was Spartan, with nothing hanging on the damp stone walls except sconces for the torches. The only decoration she could see was a sculpture of a perfectly hideous gargoyle in the corner, water pouring from its mouth into a basin.

"What class is that?" Dahlia asked Hermione, catching up.

"Potions," Hermione said, "Professor Slughorn is teaching them about the processes involved in making magical elixirs, draughts and the like. It is a very precise art that uses a plethora of ingredients."

"Eye of newt, bat wings and puppy-dog tails figure heavily, I imagine, Artimus said bad-naturedly. He didn't like anything about this world. Ghosts and now magical potions?

Cletus.

"Eye of newt and bat wings are common ingredients, but I've never heard of a potion that used puppy dog tails, although I imagine it is possible. Headmaster Snape would know, he's a Potions Master," Hermione replied as she stopped in front of a heavy wooden door with large studs in it and a gargoyle doorknob. "Here we are."

She turned the handle and opened the door, torches flaring up.

Dahlia walked in first, then Artimus behind her. Both were pleasantly surprised to find the room quite un-dungeon like. There was a living room, with a large cushy sofa and two high-backed upholstered armchairs, (all Slytherin Green) a fireplace with a nice fire going, plenty of torches that gave off a light and no smoke, a coffee table, and a large writing desk with regular pens and paper on it. A small bookshelf with a number of books rested against a wall, thick throw rugs covered the floor, paintings of landscapes complete with trees waving in the breeze hung on the wall and there was a large curtained picture window that opened on a very pretty area of the Hogwarts landscape.

"Your bedroom is through that door," Hermione said with a smile as Dahlia looked around.

Artimus frowned at the picture window.

"We're in the dungeons. How do we have a picture window that contains anything other than stones and dirt?" he asked Hermione.

"It's an illusion, just so you don't feel so closed in," she said.

"How long will it last?" the sorcerer inquired.

"Until it's removed," she answered him. "It will most certainly last your entire stay, Mr. Rogue."

Dahlia looked out the window. The grass was waving in the breeze and cloud scudded by slowly in the blue sky above. It certainly was realistic. She could almost smell the fresh air.

Artimus looked for something to complain about, but couldn't find anything. Even though they were in the dungeons, the accommodations were quite nice. There was even a vase of roses. Dahlia walked into the bedroom

"Oh Artimus," she said, her voice full of pleasure.

Artimus walked into the bedroom and saw an enormous beautiful, hand-carved four poster bed with a canopy and curtains that could be drawn closed. Cherubs graced the mahogany headboard and posts, which gleamed in the torchlight. There was a wardrobe and beautiful hand-carved dresser as well. Dahlia walked up and looked at herself in the mirror. Her tunic was covered in dirt and her hair tangled.

"Oh my dear, you're lovely, but you do need to fix yourself up a bit," a motherly feminine voice said as Dahlia's eyes widened as she looked at her reflection.

"Oh, that's a talking mirror. It makes comments on your appearance. I can silence it if you like," Hermione told Dahlia as she stood in the doorway.

"Silence it," Artimus growled. He didn't need a damn mirror evaluating him every time he looked in it. Or commenting on his sexual techniques either. He liked to do it in front of mirrors.

Hermione walked into the bedroom, pulled out her wand, murmured an incantation and flicked her wand at the mirror.

"It won't say another word," she assured the sorcerer, who was studying the bed again. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship.

Dahlia's voice rose from the bathroom.

"Artimus! Come in here!" she called him.

Artimus entered the bathroom. It was wood paneled, with beveled moldings, a large sink, recessed vanity, a shelf containing soaps and lotions and a huge sunken green marble bathtub big enough for four people. Several spigots encircled it and a set of stairs with a small silver railing led down into its depths. On the back wall was an equally enormous shower, with a sliding translucent door.

"Oh, this is beautiful!" Dahlia said, smiling at the tub. She planned to fill it up and just soak as soon as possible. This was more luxury than she'd seen in a long time. If this were a hotel room it would cost a fortune to stay here. Maybe she would enjoy her stay at Hogwarts.

"I'm glad you like it," Hermione said, smiling from the doorway, "the spigots are scented. They're labeled. And the water stays magically warm as long as you are in the tub. Or it should."

Hermione wasn't sure if the magic would work for the sorcerers, but they were used to cooling water so it shouldn't be a problem.

"What will we do for clothing?" Artimus asked.

"Just give the size of what you want to the house elves and they will bring you whatever you need," Hermione told him. "And they will also escort you around the castle and grounds. They know every nook and cranny of Hogwarts."

"House elves?" Artimus repeated. "What are house elves?"

Suddenly a small creature walked into the bathroom. The house elf was dressed in a little blue towel-like dress with a Hogwarts crest over the heart. She had large bat-like ears, a long nose and eyes the size of tennis balls, along with beautiful long lashes and blue eyes.

"I am Bluebell," the house elf said in a high squeaky voice, curtseying to Dahlia and smiling up at her. "I will provides your service while you is at Hogwarts. Just says my name and tells me what you needs when I come."

Dahlia stared down at the creature. She looked a little like a kobold, but much more pleasant and without the scales. She wondered if it was a relation. Kobolds used to live in peasant houses, on ships and in other human domains, doing service. But they would do mischief if nothing were left out for them to eat and drink, feeling they were unappreciated. Most lived in the magical forests of the realm now, due to the wide use of iron by humans. Cold steel is deadly to most of the Fey, with a few exceptions.

"Thank you Bluebell," Dahlia said to the elf, which bobbed and smiled up at her. Suddenly her features feel, and her ears folded back. Hermione looked at her.

"Bluebell, what's wrong," the witch asked her.

"I can tell the Headmistress what's wrong," a low, gravelly voice answered from someplace beyond the door. "I can tells you what's awry."

Hermione stiffened as a small, rather bent form entered the bedroom slowly. Hermione's eyebrows rose as she looked down on Kreacher, the aged former servant of the house of Black. He wore the gold locket of Regulus Black around his neck, and peered up at Hermione, then at Dahlia and Artimus with a slight frown on his face before he lowered his eyes again.

"Kreacher was sent by the Headmaster. He tells Kreacher he musts serves one who is not Muggle and not wizard. Kreacher wonders what kind of thing he is," the house-elf said as if to himself. "Kreacher wonders what kind of thing he serves for four days."

Hermione let her forehead fall into her hand for a moment. How could Severus do this? Send Kreacher of all the house elves to serve Artimus? Although Kreacher showed his true colors at the Final Battle, he was still an ornery and rude elf.

Shit. That's exactly why Severus sent him. Oh gods damn it. And Hermione couldn't override his orders.

Kreacher peered up at Artimus again.

"It looks like a man, but Kreacher cannot see its secrets. Bluebell cannot see the Miss' secrets. Will be much work to serves these things," Kreacher muttered.

Artimus scowled.

"What the hell is this?" he asked Hermione, pointing at Kreacher who looked back up at him with open distaste.

"Um, he's your personal servant. He'll serve you like Bluebell serves Dahlia," she said to the sorcerer.

"But Dahlia's house elf is . . . well . . . pleasant," Artimus said, frowning down at Kreacher.

"Kreacher serves the thing whether pleasant or not," the house elf said to himself, loud enough for everyone to hear. "For four days Kreacher serves the strange thing not Muggle or wizard."

"Thing?" Artimus said, outraged as Dahlia hid a smile behind her hand.

"I'll talk to the Headmaster to see if he can assign another house elf," Hermione promised the sorcerer. She couldn't arbitrarily dismiss Kreacher when Severus gave him the assignment.

"Kreacher hopes the Headmistress is successful," Kreacher intoned, his eyes flicking up at her. "Kreacher would rather shovel dragon du . . ."

"That's enough, Kreacher! You will give Mr. Rogue good service," Hermione said to the house elf sharply.

"Of course Kreacher will gives good service," the house elf said, then bowed stiffly to Artimus. "What does the Rogue-thing need?"

Artimus turned red and looked at Hermione furiously, too mad to even speak.

"I'll talk to him immediately, Mr. Rogue. Right when I leave here. Are you hungry?" Hermione asked the irate sorcerer, trying to get his mind off Kreacher.

"I am. I'd like some fruit," Dahlia said to Hermione.

"What kinds of fruits, Miss?" Bluebell asked, feeling out of sorts that she couldn't read Dahlia's desires. House elves could usually bring what was needed without asking. They just knew. But the minds of these strange visitors weren't open to them. It was unsettling. The house elf couldn't even see Dahlia's secrets, not that she would tell them if she could.

"Do you have honeydew melon?" Dahlia asked hopefully.

"We has everything," the house elf said proudly. "I will comes back with it."

Bluebell winked out.

"I'll have bacon and eggs with toast and coffee, black with one sugar," Artimus ordered Kreacher.

"The thing wants bacon, eggs, toast, coffee, one sugar," Kreacher intoned, winking out as well.

An uncomfortable silence ensued for several moments with Artimus frowning at Hermione and Dahlia looking at Artimus as if she wanted to burst out laughing until Hermione cleared her throat, thinking this would be a good time to depart.

"Well, I'll give you two a chance to get settled in and go and talk to the Headmaster about your elf, Mr. Rogue. But if you need anything, just ask the elves, and they will be happy . . . er . . . willing to serve you and escort you anyplace you wish to go," Hermione said, wincing a little.

She doubted Kreacher would be either happy or willing to serve Artimus, but he'd still do it. She could only imagine what was going through the old elf's mind. He had only recently come to terms with Muggle-Borns and finally stopped referring to them as Mud-Bloods. Now this?

Severus was unconscionable.

Well, she was going to have a talk with him. He might be over her as Headmaster of the school, but like in any relationship, Hermione was the real power behind the wielded wand. And Mr. Severus Snape might not be wielding his wand for the next four days if he didn't reassign that elf, pronto.

Hermione shook her head as she walked up the dungeon corridor heading for the Headmaster's office.

She couldn't believe him sometimes.

* * *

A/N: lolol. Got to LOVE Severus. He's so dirty. And Dahlia's scared of ghosts. I had originally wanted to put in that Dahlia's fear of ghosts was genetic. She a jumble of different ethnicities, but I wanted to say the "black gene" came out when she saw the Baron. I didn't do it though because I know somebody would get offended. Doesn't stop me from mentioning it in the author notes though. Now, as comedian Richard Pryor pointed out years ago, black people don't do ghosts, demons or anything remotely related to them. If black folks had been in "The Exorcist" the movie would have been about 5 minutes long.

Demon: Heeeelloooooooo!  
Black folks: Goooodbyyyye! (Door Slam)

lol. And before you get offended, trust me, I'm black and I don't do ghosts or monsters (not even haunted houses at amusement parks, but that's me.) and I don't know anyone black who does unless they're in the movies. Then the ghosts usually get them, which is even more of a reason to avoid them. ROFL. Just having fun, ya'll. Hope you liked the chapter. Thanks for reading.


	7. The Headmaster's Haunts

**CHAPTER 7 The Headmaster's Haunts**

Hermione rode up the shifting stairwells to the seventh floor, still wearing the scowl she donned in the dungeons. The stairs connected to the landing and the little witch stalked off, heading for tower that housed the Headmaster's office. She stopped in front of the grinning gargoyle and recited the password Severus had chosen to gain entrance to his domain. He preferred multiple rhyming passwords, probably in the hopes that visitors might forget a word, get the order wrong or at least understand what he expected them to do once in his presence, which was quite clear.

"Converse, Reverse, Disperse," Hermione said with a sigh.

Only Severus.

The days of simple, entertaining passwords such as "Lemon Drops" and "Flickety Wickets" were long gone. A Slytherin was in the house now

The statue jumped aside and the wall behind it split in two, revealing the winding stone staircase that led up to the Headmaster's Office. Hermione mounted it, and it slowly wound upward as the wall closed. It stopped at an upper landing and Hermione dismounted, walked up to the gleaming oak door, lifted the brass griffin-shape knocker and knocked three times.

The knock was answered by several moments of silence, then the Headmaster's irritated voice sounded.

"I'm busy, come back later or talk to Headmistress Granger who will relay your message," Snape called at the door, poring over his paperwork and putting it into separate folders for his presentation at the Board of Governors.

"Severus Snape, you let me in right now!" Hermione snarled through the door.

Severus looked up and arched an eyebrow, an unpleasant little smile creasing his lips. From the fury in Hermione's voice, Kreacher must have made his appearance.

"One moment, Headmistress," Severus purred, and just sat there for a few seconds, letting Hermione stew. He liked when she was angry. Her brown eyes would flash, she'd grow flushed, her voice would squeak . . .

It reminded him of when she'd orgasm in his arms. Always very pleasant to observe.

"Come in, Headmistress," Snape said silkily, sitting back in his high back upholstered chair and folding his pale hands on his desk, his dark eyes resting on the door somberly.

Hermione pulled it open and entered.

The office was decorated much differently than when Dumbledore and Minerva occupied it. Firstly, the large windows that opened on the mountains and Quidditch pitch were covered with heavy green curtains and kept closed no matter the season. The candles and lamplights had been removed, replaced by torches in sconces and the lighting was kept just above dim. The portraits of previous Headmasters and Headmistresses had little pull curtains on them that Severus kept closed for the most part, though he did open them on occasion. Only Albus' portrait, which was directly behind Snape's claw-footed desk, was uncovered, and he waved at Hermione, but kept silent. Severus wasn't above covering him up too if the old wizard got on his bad side.

The silver inkpot still remained on the desk, but the scarlet feather had been replaced by a large green one, and the spindly legged tables that held all of Dumbledore's curious instruments were gone, as was Fawkes' golden perch. The Pensieve cabinet remained however. All of the former Potions Master's books now filled the office, resting in ceiling to floor bookshelves that rested against almost every wall of the circular office, except for the wall exactly behind Snape.

With the exception of one shelf on the tippy-top that held the Sorting Hat and Godric Gryffindor's sword, that was the area for his assortment of glass jars containing potions, most of which had slimy pieces of animals and plants in each. A large, dead frog suspended in a purple liquid stared directly at the entry. The jars served as a grisly backdrop for the current Headmaster, Albus' portrait surrounded on all sides by slimy, staring things. Snape also had a cabinet that contained more potions recessed in the wall for easy access. The comfortable armchairs and sofas were replaced by hard wooden furniture, designed to make visitors as uncomfortable as possible, and hopefully inspire them to leave quickly after their business was done.

Snape's position at Hogwarts may have changed, but his method of operation hadn't. His office was as dungeon-like as possible.

"I assume Mr. Rogue and Miss Joiner have been safely ensconced in the dungeon area?" he said to Hermione quietly as she pulled out her wand and added a cushion to the hard oak chair in front of his desk and sat down, frowning at him.

"Yes, they have," she replied in a tight voice.

"I trust they found the accommodations suitable?" Snape continued, his dark eyes glittering.

"The accommodations are fine," Hermione snapped at him.

"I imagine all is in order then," Snape said, "a fine job, Headmistress."

"Almost," Hermione said, her brown eyes narrowing, "there is just the matter of Kreacher."

Both of Severus' eyebrows rose up in surprise.

"Is there a problem with Kreacher?" he asked in mock surprise.

Hermione scowled at him blackly.

"You know damn well there's something wrong with Kreacher. He's not suitable to serve anybody, much less Mr. Rogue!" she said to him angrily.

Severus leaned back in the chair.

"What? Has Kreacher refused to serve Mr. Rogue?" the Headmaster asked her silkily.

"Well, no . . . he hasn't refused to serve him, it's just . . . his attitude that's a problem. It's clear he doesn't like being put in the position," Hermione said.

Severus tapped his fingertips together, then said, "Kreacher is a house elf . . . a servant. What he likes and dislikes does not have any bearing on his service. His natural inclination is to serve. Kreacher has not had the privilege to serve only one individual for years. I believe he needs a break from the usual dull Hogwarts fare he's used to. A bit of one on one for the elf will do him good," Severus purred.

"Severus Snape, don't you dare try to twist this to make it seem as if you are doing something for Kreacher! You sent Mr. Rogue that elf to make his time here difficult and you know it!" she snapped at him.

Severus looked at her coolly.

"I know no such thing," he responded, "Kreacher served the House of Black for many, many years and is well versed in personal service. He might be a bit opinionated about some things, but we have to make allowances for his age. He is as good a choice as any elf at Hogwarts and actually deserves some differential treatment. He did serve the Greater Good at the Final Battle. A cushy assignment is definitely in order, Headmistress. He will not be reassigned."

"But Severus, he refers to Mr. Rogue as 'the thing!' That's insulting!" Hermione said.

"The Thing?" Severus repeated, his mouth quirking. "Obviously Kreacher has not yet reconciled exactly what Mr. Rogue is, being he is neither Muggle nor wizard. Most likely, 'sorcerer' is not in his vocabulary. He'll straighten it out eventually. It is no reason to reassign him. As long as he does what is asked of him, I will not return him to regular service, Headmistress. That is the end of it."

Hermione frowned at Severus. She couldn't argue with him in his capacity as Headmaster, and he made sure to address her by her title despite her referring to him on a more personal level. If he had addressed her as Hermione, he would have made this a personal argument rather than a matter of his authority.

Snape was far too smart to fall into that trick bag. Artimus was stuck with Kreacher until the elf did something to be dismissed for. Unfortunately, muttering didn't fall into that category.

Snape watched Hermione with hooded eyes, knowing she was incensed. Still, there was nothing the witch could do . . . at least in her capacity as Headmistress. More than likely tonight she would give him not one, but two cold shoulders, attempting to sleep in her own quarters. But that was fine.

Severus enjoyed the process of seducing Hermione and planned to take advantage of her displeasure with him to hone up on his skills.

A wizard could get rusty and Snape still loved a challenge. If Hermione were anything, it was that. No doubt she would try to make removing Kreacher from Mr. Rogue's service a negotiation point, but he already had the argument for that little tidbit firmly set in his mind, one guarantee to inspire a bit of guilt in the witch for attempting to be manipulative.

Manipulation was a Slytherin's forte. And guilt, a Gryffindor failing. Thank goodness for the house-wide cultivation of deeply ingrained Gryffindor psychological weaknesses. If it had been applicable, many Catholic nuns would have been proud of the job done on Godric's prodigy.

"What are you presenting to the Board?" Hermione asked, eyeing the paperwork on Snape's desk, deciding not to say anything more about Kreacher, for now. It would come up again in a less formal setting . . . she'd make sure.

"The next term's budget, and a few regulation changes I hope that they'll pass," the Headmaster said, adjusting the folders.

Hermione arched an eyebrow at him.

"I hope you aren't trying to bring the incarceration of offending students to the floor again, Severus," she said to him.

"I most certainly am. Detention is not enough in my estimation. If the students knew they'd be cooling their heels in the sub-dungeons for a couple of days, existing on nothing but vegetable broth and crackers, behavior at the school would improve three-fold. Filch's continued request that we reinstitute 'caning' will also be brought to the floor," Snape said.

Hermione shook her head.

"It's not going to work, Severus . . . you know that. You try it every term," the witch said.

Snape stood up, opened a briefcase and put the folders inside, closing it back and looking at Hermione.

"There is much to be said for determination, Headmistress. I am not a man to back down concerning the causes I believe in. That is why I am Headmaster," he said to her darkly. "One day they will allow me to include this form of punishment. I've adjusted the presentation to only be applicable to those students guilty of being given detention four times a term. In other words, repeat offenders. Those students who practice restraint and respect for the school rules have nothing to worry about. Now, doesn't that sound reasonable? Just the knowledge they could be incarcerated would be a deterrent to wrong action."

Hermione thought the students at Hogwarts were extremely well-behaved, much more so than when Albus and Minerva ran the school. She was sure it had something to do with a snarky Slytherin being in charge now.

Severus Snape was taking no prisoners, at least not until the Board of Governors agreed.

"Now, if there is nothing else, Headmistress, I must depart," Snape said, walking around the desk and looking down at Hermione, who rose.

"No. I have to schedule my quarterly meeting with my Gryffindors," Hermione said.

Besides being Deputy Headmistress, Hermione was also the Gryffindor Head of House. Once every quarter she met individually with her charges to discuss how their time at Hogwarts was going, their marks and any difficulties they might be having. This was something she'd instituted and it was unprecedented. Yet, she remembered there were times she wished she had a staff member to talk to concerning her fears and problems, knowing that it would go no further. When she became Head of House, she made it so and it seemed to help her students adjust better to the school.

"Still scheduling," Snape said to her softly, "think you can pencil me in for several hours tonight, Headmistress?"

He might as well start the seduction now.

Hermione arched an eyebrow at him.

"Are you asking me in the capacity of Headmaster or on a personal level?" she asked him, pursing her lips.

He leaned a bit closer.

"I'm asking in whatever capacity that will get me a favorable response," he purred at her.

"Well, in the capacity of Headmaster, this could be construed as sexual harassment," she said to him glibly.

Snape smirked.

"Your libido is showing. I made no mention of anything remotely sexual. For all you know, I wish to engage you in a few rousing games of Snap," the wizard said, his eyes glittering.

Hermione snorted.

"Yes. I can imagine what you'd like to make 'snap,' she replied, but could help the little pulse in her belly as Snape moved a bit closer. She could feel the heat from his body, or imagined she could as those intense eyes met hers.

"Can you?" he breathed.

Suddenly Snape lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her softly, capturing her lips between his for one sensuous moment, then pulling away slowly, noting her mouth remained pursed and her eyes closed. He straightened.

"I must go," he said imperiously, Hermione's eyes snapping open as he spun her toward the door.

"Keep an eye out for our guests," he said as he walked her to the entrance of the office. Hermione walked through the door and turned back toward him.

"I'll see you tonight, witch . . . provided you've penciled me in," he said, lifting one eyebrow.

"There might be room," she said softly.

Damn him. He always did this to her. Well, by tonight she'd be pissed off again, she was sure. Right now, the wordplay was too delicious to ignore.

"If not . . . I'll 'make' room," he said, a hint of danger in his voice.

Hermione loved it when he threatened her.

"Goodbye for now, Headmistress," the Headmaster said, then watched her mount the stone stairwell and descend, looking back at him.

Snape watched until she exited, then turned back into his office, banished the comfy cushion from the chair Hermione occupied, then tossed some floo powder from a box on the mantle into the fireplace. The flames turned green.

"The Board," he said, stepping through.

* * *

A/N: lol. This was fun to write. I hope I didn't offend any Catholics in this chapter. It's just that I had a friend who went to catholic school who used to crack me up about nuns handing down guilt, and I remember her always saying, "The nuns would be so proud," anytime she felt guilty about something. Her name was Samantha and she was a real hoot. Lol. Although not canon, I always believed Gryffindor would feel guilty about something faster than any other house. I think it's all that nobleness ingrained in them. Anything less than noble would have to inspire some guilt. :) And I loved coming up with Snape's password. lolol. Anyway, thanks for reading.


	8. A Truce of Sorts

Chapter 8 A Truce of Sorts

Bluebell and Kreacher returned with the food requested. Bluebell returned first. and Dahlia's honeydew melon was succulent and sweet, at the perfect point of ripeness. She pulled a copy of "Wizards and Witches of Note," sat down and began reading while enjoying her melon. She'd take a bath after she finished eating.

Kreacher reappeared about three minutes later.

"Kreacher returns with the Rogue-things food," the house elf muttered in his bullfrog voice, offering the plate and cup to Artimus, who frowned blackly.

"What the hell is this? I can't eat this! It isn't cooked!" the sorcerer snarled at the house elf.

Indeed there were two running raw eggs and several pieces of raw bacon on the plate, although the coffee smelled delicious.

"The thing musts be more specific. Kreacher cannot read its thoughts. It wants eggs, bacon. Kreacher brings eggs, bacon. Kreacher does his service," the elf muttered.

"Take it back and bring me cooked eggs and cooked bacon, and I don't want them burned!" Artimus said to the elf, taking the coffee from him.

Kreacher bowed, gave him a withering look and winked out.

Dahlia had been laughing but quickly shut up when Artimus frowned at her, while Bluebell looked at the wizard with flattened ears.

"If you think he's so funny, maybe you should take Kreacher," the sorcerer said to her.

Dahlia shook her head.

"No way. He's your house elf," she said.

"Hopefully, not for long," Artimus muttered, plopping into an armchair, scowling.

His stomach growled.

Suddenly, Dahlia sat up, staring at the book.

"Artimus, Kreacher's in here," she said in disbelief.

Artimus looked around the room.

"I hope he brought me a decent meal," he said darkly.

Dahlia shook her head and rose from the chair, walking over to Artimus and kneeling beside him, tapping the book she was reading.

"He's in here, Artimus. He's a war hero!" she said to the sorcerer.

Artimus looked and indeed there was Kreacher looking baleful, the locket of Regulus Black around his neck.

Both sorcerer and sorceress read Kreacher's Tale, which had carefully been recounted by Harry Potter. At the Final Battle it had been Kreacher who led the Hogwarts house elves into battle against the Dark Lord's forces. Artimus and Dahlia didn't know who the Dark Lord was, but it was clear Kreacher had played a vital part in his downfall.

"He's a hero, Artimus, and they have him acting as a servant. No wonder he's so unpleasant," Dahlia said to the sorcerer, who looked thoughtful. It seemed a terrible way to reward the elf's service. How unfair was this world?

Kreacher returned with Artimus' breakfast, now properly cooked and offered it to Artimus, who took it and said, "Thank you, Kreacher."

Kreacher looked up at him, but didn't say anything. Just stood there sullenly, waiting for more commands.

Artimus studied him, then put his meal down on the coffee table.

"Kreacher, I've just learned you are a war hero," he said to the elf. "I don't understand why these people would make you serve others when you've done so much for them. But, I respect who you are and what you've done. We are facing a war in our own world and many have been sacrificed. It is an honor to meet a true hero, and I will try not to have you do too much for me. I think it is . . . demeaning."

Kreacher looked up at him. It had been a long time since anyone acknowledged him as a hero.

"And I am sorry I spoke so harshly of you," the sorcerer added. "Please, forgive me for that. I would have never done so if I knew who you were and what you accomplished for this world. I am very sorry."

Artimus really was a decent sort, and he hated injustice of any kind. He didn't understand that house elves lived to do service. Kreacher being in this position just seemed unfair to the sorcerer.

Kreacher stared at Artimus. He had apologized to him and acknowledged him as a hero.

"What . . . what is you called if not Muggle or wizard?" the house elf asked him.

"I'm a sorcerer. I have magic, just not magic like you are used to. I come from someplace else and am here by accident," Artimus replied. "First I was attacked and then my horse was badly injured. Now I'm being forced to stay at Hogwarts for four days until he's healed and was already angry when I met you because I would like to go home. I would have been angry no matter how good your service."

Kreacher nodded. He understood about wanting to go home. Even now he missed Grimauld Place although it wasn't the same anymore. He blinked up at Artimus.

"Sorcerer. Sorcerer Rogue is your name. Kreacher will uses it," the house elf said, his entire demeanor changing. "But Kreacher gives good service to Sorcerer Rogue. That is a house elf's purpose."

"I don't want to take advantage of you, Kreacher," Artimus said to the elf, who gave him a half smile.

"You shows Kreacher respect. Respect is rare. Everyone is 'Kreacher do this' and 'Kreacher do that' not caring anymore. I will serves you well, Sorcerer Rogue. Whatever you needs I will provides," Kreacher promised.

Dahlia's eyes watered a little. Poor little guy. So underappreciated.

Artimus started to bring the cup of coffee to his lips.

"No!" Kreacher cried, flicking a finger at it and making it fly out of Artimus' hand.

Artimus' brow furrowed as Kreacher magically emptied the cup.

"Kreacher puts one very large sugar in the coffee,' the house elf said apologetically. "I will gets more."

Kreacher had added two thirds of a cup of sugar to the coffee. Artimus would have been on a sugar high the moment he took one sip.

The house elf winked out to get him a proper cuppa.

And that was how Artimus Rogue and Kreacher reached an understanding.

* * *

"The Headmaster is in here too, Artimus. There are four pages about him," Dahlia said, leafing through the book, "and Hermione Granger is in here as well. They're both war heroes."

"What's it say about Snape?" Artimus asked curiously as he chewed his bacon.

"That he served as a double agent for something called "The Order of the Phoenix" for almost thirty years," Dahlia said, scanning the text "He provided information that saved many lives, and was forced to take the life of a former Hogwarts Headmaster named Albus Dumbledore on the wizard's orders. Snape was hunted for his death by everyone on the side of light. He provided aid to someone named Harry Potter who was destined to meet the Dark Lord and destroy him. Without Snape's help it would have never happened."

Artimus listened.

"Many people believed him to be a traitor and he wasn't trusted by many. It also says he was often tortured to the point of death and had to be pieced back together, and yet he never faltered in returning to the tyrant who treated him so badly. At the Final Battle he was almost killed, the Dark Lord turning on him and allowing his snake to bite him. Hermione Granger saved him by giving him a blood transfusion."

"Nearly thirty years as a spy," Artimus said thoughtfully. "that's a long time. No wonder he's so unpleasant . . ."

"He might be unpleasant, but he's a courageous man, Artimus. One worthy of respect," she said softly. "I wish we had someone like that to help us against the Antimage."

"Ours is a different kind of war, Dahlia, and a very old one. There is no way a sorcerer could infiltrate the ranks. They would be found out immediately. Clerics are raised in Damar, and they kill any sorcerers born there. The Antimage has no mercy even for his own people."

"Yes, I suppose it is different," Dahlia said sadly. "Although the deaths and misery are the same."

"But we're working on it Dahlia. The plans we are developing could open a way to Damar. If we could enter Damar, we might be able to raze it to the ground," Artimus said.

Dahlia sighed.

"But we have no army, Artimus. You know sorcerers rarely work together. No one would join a magical army. They'd rather meet the clerics when they encounter them. Some sorcerers never run across them in their lifetimes. To them it's hit or miss. As long as they survive, they don't care about anyone else."

"There are the other Protector groups, Dahlia. When the time comes and the plan is completed, we can send an emissary to ask for their aid. Perhaps they will join us," Artimus said soothingly.

Dahlia didn't say anything. The Protector groups didn't associate with one another at all. They ran independent of each other and consisted of volunteers. And there was no magical government that handled sorcerer affairs. Almost all of them lived in the normal world, with the exception of those that attended Finklenook, which was in the magical realm and the few that homesteaded the magical land, like Matilda Hagg and Rubin Fezwig.

Feeling rather glum now, Dahlia closed the book, intending on reading more later.

"I'm going to take a bath, Artimus," she told the sorcerer, who nodded.

"I'm going to go check on Steede," Artimus replied, then looked at Kreacher.

"You don't have to come, Kreacher. I can find my way back to the stables," he said to the house elf, who firmly shook his head.

"Kreacher must stays with Sorcerer Rogue. It is my duty. Kreacher can takes you faster than walking," the elf said, catching Artimus by the hand and disappearing with the startled sorcerer.

Dahlia looked at the empty space with round eyes, then down at Bluebell.

"What just happened?" she asked the little elf, who smiled.

"They goes. That is how house elves travels. We comes and goes," she replied, "now I will draw the Miss' bath."

Bluebell trotted into the bedroom, then into the bathroom

"They just goes. Amazing," Dahlia said, following Bluebell into the bathroom, pulling up her tunic as she walked.

* * *

After making out a tentative schedule for her meeting with her Gryffindors for next week, Hermione grabbed a copy of "Hogwarts a History" and returned to the dungeon area to see how Dahlia and Artimus were getting on.

She knocked on the door.

"Come in," Dahlia called.

Hermione entered the room and found Dahlia seated at the desk, reading. Bluebell sat on the floor next to the desk, and nodded at the Headmistress as she entered. Dahlia was now dressed in a light blue, beaded cotton blouse with long, rather swishy sleeves, and her hair was pulled back and braided into a long brown braid that hung halfway down her back. Hermione couldn't see it, but she also wore a long, light floral skirt and sandals. Wooden bracelets hung on both wrists, and she wore a long beaded necklace made of wood, the beads interspersed with tiny elephants. She looked up at Hermione and smiled.

"I see Bluebell brought you clothing," Hermione said, looking at the sorceress. She liked the way she looked, kind of retro and hippieish. It was evident Dahlia went for the natural look.

"Yes, and exactly what I asked for, although I had to describe it in detail," Dahlia responded, looking at Hermione curiously.

Hermione looked around.

"Where is Mr. Rogue?" she inquired.

"Down at he stables with Steede and Kreacher," Dahlia replied.

"Oh," Hermione said, looking rather uncomfortable. "I'm afraid he's going to be stuck with Kreacher for the duration of his stay. The Headmaster did not want to reassign him."

To her surprise Dahlia smiled at this.

"That will be fine with Artimus," she said shortly.

Hermione looked incredulous.

"Are you sure? He wasn't very happy with Kreacher when I left earlier. I thought he'd prefer another elf," Hermione said, wondering what was going on here.

Was Artimus some kind of masochist who liked being mistreated by the help?

"Well, that was before we found out that Kreacher is a war hero. But I can't blame him for not being friendly. Why do you treat him the way you do, making him do menial labor? He deserves more than that," Dahlia said in a disapproving voice, her hazel eyes darkening at the perceived unfairness.

"Oh, we don't make the house elves work, Miss Joiner. It is their nature to provide service. Every house elf lives to find a good master and provide service for the rest of their lives. They take great pride in it," Hermione explained.

"Are they paid?" Dahlia asked.

"No. They're bound to service," the witch said, swallowing a bit. She knew how it sounded to the sorceress, like it did to her years ago. Enslavement.

"Bound? You mean Kreacher is a slave?" Dahlia asked, openly frowning now. She knew Hogwarts was a bit medieval, but had no idea it was this backwards. Slavery?

"No, no he's not a slave, believe me," Hermione said hastily, then she explained the history of house elves, how they were once warlike creatures, powerful and destructive who waged war on human wizard and almost defeated them. But the elves were defeated and bound into servitude. Eventually, they learned to like it, because before there was work, there was always war and death. When they weren't fighting humans, they were fighting other tribes and among themselves. They had actually been dying out because of this in-fighting. A very popular saying among the elves was "If there be's no work, then there be's no elves." They truly believed work helped them to survive as a race and for the most part were grateful for the change of lifestyle.

Dahlia still wasn't sure if this explanation were true and looked down at Bluebell, who had been listening and nodding as Hermione told her history.

"Bluebell," Dahlia said to the little elf, "would you like to be free?"

Dahlia was startled by the look of horror on the little elf's face.

"Oh no, Miss! Oh no! Bluebell never wants clothes, Miss, never wants to be free!" the elf squeaked in a horrified voice, trembling.

Dahlia blinked at her.

"Clothes?" she said, confused.

"When a master frees a house elf, he gives it clothing of its own as a symbol of it. Most house elves believe it is a great shame to receive clothes and be cast out of their Master's house. I only knew of one house elf that desired freedom and got it, living happily and receiving pay for his work. His name was . . . Dobby," Hermione said, her eyes becoming a bit wet at recalling the loyal house elf who gave his life to rescue them so long ago.

Bluebell looked a bit ashamed about Dobby. To the house elves, he was no role model and believed to be a bit . . . insane. Kicked one too many times by Lucius Malfoy.

Dahlia slowly shook her head.

"This is one strange world where creatures love to be slaves. It sounds a bit like they've been overly subjugated to me," she said to Hermione.

Hermione smiled.

"You know, when I was a student here, I felt the same way. I actually started a group called S. P. E. W. It stood for 'Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.' I had buttons and everything, but not many people were interested in joining, although I forced in a couple of members. I wanted the house elves to be free and receive pay."

Bluebell looked up at Hermione with undisguised horror. She did what?

"I even used to hide clothes around Gryffindor Tower, little hats I'd make, so they would find them and be freed. They ended up refusing to clean our tower," Hermione said. "Even Hagrid who loves all kinds of creatures told me to leave them alone. Finally I realized it was a lost cause and gave up. I couldn't force freedom on them."

"SPEW?" Dahlia said, disbelievingly. "You actually called it SPEW? That's hilarious."

She started laughing as Hermione turned red.

"Well, the acronym had to spell out something catchy," she murmured, which just made Dahlia laugh harder as Hermione stood there, crimson-colored.

Finally, Dahlia stopped and looked at her red face.

"I'm sorry. It's just it was funny," Dahlia said apologetically wiping her eyes. Then she looked at the book Hermione carried. It was large.

"What's that?" she asked the witch.

"Oh. It's 'Hogwarts, a History.' It will tell you all about the school, how it was founded, who ran it, information about former Headmasters, teachers, students etc. It's very interesting reading," Hermione said, putting it on the desk and sliding it over to Dahlia, who suddenly became sober.

"The book I've been reading is very interesting too," she said to Hermione, respect in her eyes. "You're in there. You're a hero who helped bring down the Dark Lord with Harry Potter."

Hermione flushed.

"That was a long time ago," she said, "and I didn't do that much. I just helped."

"Just helped. You went through quite a bit . . . being captured and tortured by the enemy, hiding out while Death Eaters searched all over for you, saving Professor . . . Headmaster Snape," Dahlia said softly. "I'm honored to meet you. We have no recognized war heroes where I'm from, though clerics are constantly engaged and sorcerers saved."

"You're involved in a war, Dahlia?" Hermione asked.

Dahlia nodded.

"Yes. It's been going on for two thousand years," the sorceress said sadly.

"Two thousand years! Dear gods . . . that's two millennia! How could a war last that long, and why doesn't anyone know about it?" she asked the sorceress, both horrified and intrigued.

"It's a long story and started by a misunderstanding really. It began back in the time of the occupation of Jerusalem. There was a sorcerer named Cletus who misled people into believing he could resurrect the dead, when he could only heal very ill people who had slipped into a coma and were presumed dead. He knew he wasn't raising them, but enjoyed all the attention and wealth being piled on him, so although he never said he actually resurrected them, he didn't say he didn't. He acquired a ring from someplace that gave him the healing power. Legend has it he stole it off a stranger, but the writings are sketchy."

"So, what was the misunderstanding?" Hermione pressed.

Dahlia sighed and continued.

"A man was crucified by the Romans who had a lot of zealous followers, and they came to Cletus demanding he resurrect him . . . Cletus refused, trying to use the prophecy about the man to get out of it, but his refusal made the zealots angry and they tried to kill him and take his ring, saying only someone in cahoots with the Dark Powers of the world would refuse to do such an act. Cletus was hunted and eventually killed, his ring taken and war declared on all sorcerers as a result by the zealots who dedicated all their generations wiping us off the face of the earth. It didn't matter that the prophecy was true and the man rose on his own, because the zealots missed the whole thing, they were so focused on finding Cletus. By the time they returned to Jerusalem, he was gone. And this made them furious and they blamed sorcerers. If they had remained faithful and waited, everything would have been fine. They never trusted the prophecy and so made sorcerers their scapegoats."

"That's terrible," Hermione intoned, shaking her head as Dahlia went on.

"Eventually, the zealots broke off from the rest of the followers, relocated to a protected area and formed the City of Damar, where they practiced their own twisted faith. They've been as good as their word, developing a way to enter the magical world and ways to identify us in the normal world. We have no way of identifying them. They are human and many live in the normal world, having jobs, driving, co-existing with other humans, but always on the lookout for sorcerers. When they find them, they take them to Damar and often kill their families."

Hermione was fascinated.

"But why do they kill their families? Aren't they sorcerers too?" Hermione inquired, thinking the magic was passed down genetically, like in their world.

"No. A sorcerer can be born to anyone, and there's no guarantee a sorcerer's child will have magic. It's kind of hit or miss. Usually there's only one per family when they are born. There are volunteers among us that comb the hospitals and schools looking for these children and we cast protective spells to hide their signatures from the clerics, who also linger around these places, hoping to get to them before we do. After we protect them, we periodically check on them until they reach the age of thirteen, when we collect them and take them to 'camp' where we teach them the basics of using their magic. Then they are left to educate themselves so they can become more efficient at using it. If they manage to get a few degrees under their belt, then they try to gain entrance to Finklenook, where they can experiment with magic in a controlled environment and access the latest developments and research, while contributing to magical knowledge."

"What, there are no schools to teach the children?" Hermione asked, amazed.

Dahlia shook her head.

"Sorcery is a lonely pursuit. Unlike you, we have to learn how a thing is put together before we can create it, which is why we all have degrees in various fields. And our creation magic is governed by the Rule of Seven. The most a creation can last is seven days, and only seven of the same object can be created at one time. Of course we can make them of shorter duration if we choose. Then are spells that are proactive, such as blast, lift, move and others which don't require anything more than the order to be given. But the ability to create temporary constructs is very important to us."

"The Rule of Seven. That's why Hagrid's bonds disappeared when they were in prolonged contact with you. Your rules of magic kicked in, and since Hagrid's magic wasn't strengthened by knowledge, it couldn't maintain itself. It also explains why our spells didn't affect you the way they do us. This is absolutely fascinating, Miss Joiner."

Imagine, a school full of brilliant sorcerers, all working toward the improvement of magic. To Hermione, that sounded like heaven. There weren't even universities in the magical world.

"No more fascinating than a world where witches and wizards can just create things without knowing how they function, only that they do," Dahlia said in response.

"We really need to sit down and talk. I'd love to know more about your world," Hermione said excitedly.

"I see you like to learn," Dahlia replied, smiling. "You would have made a good sorceress. I'd like to read a bit more about your world before we do that, so I can have a few questions of my own answered."

"Fair enough," Hermione replied with a bright smile. Knowledge was afoot.

Witch and sorceress stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, then Hermione decided to take the plunge with a tentative offer of friendship in the form of an invitation.

"Dahlia, would you like to come to supper with me in the Great Hall? We have excellent food and you could see our students close up," Hermione offered.

Dahlia considered. More than likely Artimus wouldn't leave Steede until nightfall. He doted on that horse. It was better than eating alone, and the sorceress was very hungry.

"Do you have green tea?" she asked as they exited her rooms.

"I'm sure it can be provided, although you might want to try our pumpkin juice. It's very good," Hermione suggested.

Hm. Pumpkin juice. Dahlia wondered if it tasted anything like carrot juice, which she loved.

Once in the Great Hall and seated at the staff table alongside Hermione, she cautiously sniffed, then lifted a glass full of the thick, orange liquid to her lips . . .

Blech!

It didn't.

* * *

A/N: Had to do more background and a bit of connecting between Dahlia and Hermione as well as give the background to the war. Thanks for reading.


	9. Supper

**Chapter 9 Supper**

When Dahlia entered the Great Hall with Hermione, they didn't use the teacher's entrance behind the High Table, but entered from the Entrance Hall. Dahlia was amazed at the floating candles and vast ceiling that seemed to open up on the sky.

"What do you do if it rains?" she asked Hermione, craning her head upward to watch the passing clouds.

"Oh, it's an illusion. The ceiling only mirrors the sky," she replied as they walked past four long tables that were quickly filling with students. Large windows that opened on the lawn were embedded in the walls. The staff table was on a raised platform at the front of the room, and several teachers entered from the staff table.

Dahlia didn't get the friendliest of looks from any of them. A few teachers were still sore from her tossing them about. Sybil's narrowed, magnified eyes watched the sorceress' approach with clear malice. Flitwick looked at her with undisguised interest. He would love to know why their spells didn't stop her this morning. She should have been stunned several times over.

The students were as loud and boisterous as any other youngsters as they greeted each other and sat down at the food-laden tables, jostling for positions and pulling food toward them as they loudly conversed. They all wore robes and matching ties at each table. The students at the first table closet to the door wore green and silver ties, the next wore blue and bronze, the one following wore yellow and black and the last table's occupants wore scarlet and gold ties.

"Why are they wearing different colored ties?" Dahlia asked Hermione as they sat down.

"Oh, they are seated by the houses they are in. The ties reflect their house colors. There are Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor," Hermione said gesturing toward each table to identify the house.

"Oh, sort of like fraternity houses?" Dahlia asked, interested. It seemed there could be some competition among the students.

"A bit, although they are co-ed," Hermione replied, "now, just say what you'd like to eat loudly and clearly, and it will appear."

"Anything I'd like?" Dahlia asked her.

Hermione nodded, ordering her meal and Dahlia blinking at it for a moment, before ordering her own. She was glad they were served in a less competitive manner than the students, who were busily grabbing food off plates left and right, sometimes having little tugs of war with other students across from or next to them. It was probably fun for students, but not suitable for adults. She saw Hermione drink from a large glass of orange liquid with a satisfied sigh. That must be pumpkin juice.

Dahlia ordered a large salad with radishes, peppers, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, cheese and a bit of chicken. For desert she asked for an orange, and she ordered a pumpkin juice as well.

We all know how that turned out.

Suddenly, the whole Hall fell silent, completely silent, the students still consuming their food, but quietly. Dahlia looked around and saw that Headmaster Snape had entered and it was as if someone threw a bucket of ice cold water over everyone present. Even the staff members had stopped talking.

The tall, pale wizard glided over to a large high-backed chair next to Hermione and took his seat with a flourish as staff members murmured greetings at him. He acknowledged these with a nod and ordered his meal. Presently, a low murmur began, nothing like the noise before as everyone quietly spoke, nervously looking up to the dais from time to time, making sure they weren't attracting the Headmaster's attention.

Snape looked down at Dahlia, his brow slightly furrowed.

"Where is Mr. Rogue?" the Headmaster asked his Deputy Headmistress as he cut into his rare steak.

"He's down at the stables with his horse," Hermione replied, "and Kreacher."

It was then Severus noticed Bluebell sitting under the table.

"So, he would rather stay with his horse than with his human companion. Interesting," Snape said.

Dahlia bristled at the insinuation Artimus cared more for his horse than he did her.

"Steede is very important to him and injured as well as in a strange place. It makes sense that Artimus would see about him. He knows I'm fine," she said in his defense. "He takes very good care of Steede."

Severus chewed his food, swallowed and said, "It still would have been much simpler to just replace the animal. Both he and Miss Joiner would be home right now if he had just taken the more expedient route and put the horse down."

Hermione scowled. Severus just didn't get how it was between owners and their pets. There was a special bond between them. The dark wizard simply saw them as beasts that people needlessly fawned over. Animals didn't need to be pampered. They could take care of themselves or fall to natural selection as Nature intended. The exception being familiars which could be useful.

"I'd rather wait until Steede heals," Dahlia said pointedly, eating her salad and frowning at the wizard.

He might be a hero, but he wasn't a charming one. The way he looked said "Villain" loud and clear. Lank hair, cold black eyes, large hooked nose, sallow skin and rather thin . . . no he definitely didn't fit the classic hero mold. But maybe that's why he was such an excellent spy. No one could possibly think anyone who looked and sounded like Severus Snape meant anyone any good.

Suddenly, Snape stood up, tapping his fork on his wineglass.

Everyone looked up expectantly.

"I have an announcement to make," he said in his soft silken voice, "as of today there is a new policy in place. Those students who continuously show a disregard for the rules of this institution are now officially on notice. If you receive four detentions in one quarter term, your punishment will be upgraded and if you commit any further offenses, including class lateness, incomplete assignments or other acts of non-compliance, you will be incarcerated in the subdungeons for the amount of time I personally designate. All Heads of House will immediately forward all disciplinary records of their students to my Deputy Headmistress, who will sort them out accordingly. Every assigned detention will hereby be brought to my personal notice. There will be order at Hogwarts."

Hermione stared at the Headmaster.

Oh gods, he did it. He got the board to allow him to institute incarceration as a feasible form of punishment for students.

Down at the end of the table, Filch grinned horrendously. No doubt he would be the Dungeon master. No doubt he'd take great pleasure in his work.

Dahlia blinked up at Snape. Incarceration? Damn, they were tough at Hogwarts.

"This new policy will be posted for review as soon as possible," Snape said, taking his seat again and listening to the renewed murmurs with some satisfaction. He looked at Hermione.

"As I said earlier, determination counts for quite a bit," he purred at her, then returned to his food.

* * *

With Kreacher present, Steede wouldn't talk to Artimus, eyeing the strange little creature who kind of resembled a kobold. Why was he with Artimus?

Artimus introduced Kreacher to the swinging horse, describing him as his "escort" rather than his servant, and telling Steede he was a war hero.

Kreacher observed this one-sided conversation for several minutes, then said, "The horse can speaks."

Both Steede and Artimus looked at the house elf in amazement.

"What?" Artimus said in disbelief.

Kreacher smiled.

"No needs to tries to hides it from Kreacher. I can reads his thoughts. He is smart and thinks, and I know his secrets," Kreacher said. "So he mights as well speaks. Kreacher will not tells."

"What is he? A mind reader?" Steede called down from his sling.

"I imagine he is, although he can't read my mind. I believe it's because I am a sorcerer," Artimus replied. But he was glad he could speak to Steede openly. The sorcerer grabbed a shovel and was about to clean the area under Steede when Kreacher objected.

"No, Sorcerer Rogue, that is Kreacher's service," the house elf said, walking forward.

Artimus was about to protest. It was clear to see that Kreacher was up in years and the shovel was so much larger than him. But the house elf just waved a hand at the mess and . . . it was gone. The area beneath Steede was spotless. Kreacher then gave him fresh water and delivered more food to the magical trough.

"My, he's handy. Do you think we can take him with us?" Steede said in approval. "He could stay in the stable with me."

Kreacher smiled at the praise but didn't say anything. It was quite complimentary for a house elf to be wanted for service. Kreacher liked this horse in the strange swing.

"No, he belongs here, Steede," Artimus replied, looking at the elf appreciatively. He had wonderful magic.

Kreacher probably wouldn't be adverse to a change of scenery. But although he was at Hogwarts, technically he was bound to Harry Potter and already had a master. So he couldn't have gone with the sorcerer if he wanted to.

They spent a nice afternoon together, Kreacher bringing him a simply delicious meal of fried rabbit with fresh vegetables after learning the sorcerer enjoyed wild game, then telling Artimus all about his service for the Blacks, and for Harry Potter and the Order.

The elf admitted there was a time he was not for the side of Good, but it was only because those on the side of good were so dismissive and unkind to him, taking away the things of his beloved mistress and yelling at him all the time. They did not respect the memory of his good masters.

"Only those on the dark side was kind to Kreacher, excepts the Dark Lord . . . who almost kills Kreacher . . . but my Master saves me and later gives his own life when he could have takes mine. Kreacher would have dies for him . . . but he spares Kreacher and takes it into himself . . ."

Kreacher's bullfrog voice went even more croaky as he wiped his eyes, then straightened.

"But my good Master, Regulus Black, he dies for the Good! He gives his life for the Good! Kreacher could do no less, so he fights in the name of my good master, Regulus Black, whose locket I wears forever!"

It was quite a powerful story, and Artimus had even more respect for the old elf as they headed back for Hogwarts, Artimus wishing to walk across the grounds this time and take in the beauty of the setting sun, imagining the light glinting off of puddles . . . puddles that would take him home to the Magical Realm if the circumstances were different.

But as he approached Hogwarts, he couldn't help thinking that this world was full of true heroes, those who worked together to end evil. If only his own people would make a unified effort instead of being so self-absorbed, only facing the war only when it arrived at their own doorstep, then all this madness might be stopped. But sorcerers weren't wizards.

And so the war continued.

* * *

Hermione was in her first floor office, sorting through the initial disciplinary reports that had been sent to her by the other Heads of Houses, when Severus knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" Hermione called out.

"The boss," Severus purred against the door.

Hermione frowned.

"Come in, Severus," she said, looking at the clock. It was after nine.

The Headmaster entered Hermione's office, his black eyes resting on the stack of parchments.

"The workday is over, Hermione," he said to her softly. "I was hoping you might join me for a late snack before retiring."

"I'm not very hungry, Severus," she said, her nose in the air.

"Really? That's a shame, witch. I've had lobster bisque specially prepared with you in mind, telling the elves to make sure to add a large quantity of juicy, succulent claw and tail meat," he purred at her.

Hermione salivated a little. Staff members weren't allowed to arbitrarily order such expensive fare as lobster. Only the Headmaster of the school had that right. One of the perks of being in charge.

Severus moved closer, leaning over the seated witch, resting his pale hands on her shoulders, his voice low and seductive as he massaged them gently, Hermione's head slightly falling to the side.

"I had them make it according to my exacting specifications, Hermione . . . and as you know, I have a connoisseur's palate. Shall I tell you the ingredients?" he breathed, letting his warm breath wash over the shell of her ear.

It's been said the way to a wizard's heart is through his stomach, but Severus knew in Hermione's case, the stomach often led to her knickers. He already had her heart.

"No," she said weakly, swallowing again.

"I think . . . yes," he said softly, continuing his caressing of her shoulders, then moving his warm palms to her neck, so she sighed. His hands were magical as well.

"I insisted upon the freshest ingredients, the lobster meat cut into one inch pieces," he crooned, "the elves used a heavy stock pot, Hermione, heating the rich creamy butter until it turned slightly brown, then adding both the meat and the smaller pieces of shell that still held the flavor of the lobster, cooking it until it turned a lush, bright red."

Hermione tried not to listen, but Severus' voice became even more seductive.

"Then, they reduced the heat and added onions, celery, carrot, garlic, tomato, bay leaf, black pepper, thyme, tarragon, paprika and flour, .sautéing for exactly ten minutes. Can't you almost smell the delicious aroma, Hermione?"

"You're horrible," she breathed, "tell me more . . ."

"Then, they removed the pot from the heat and slowly added white wine and brandy," he continued, his silky voice titillating her taste buds and belly, which was feeling emptier and emptier the more he spoke.

"Then, the pot was returned to the heat and stirred precisely for five minutes to properly incorporate the flavors and ingredients . . . and then . . ."

Snape paused in his description.

"Then what?" Hermione pressed.

"Then, a rich fish stock and not one but two kinds of cream were added, both light and heavy," Severus hissed.

Hermione physically trembled now.

"Two kinds?" she asked, a kind of squeak in her voice.

"Two," Severus purred, "how . . . decadent. A bit of salt and pepper to taste, then the bisque was brought to a boil, then allowed to simmer no more than thirty minutes and just a minute touch of cornstarch added to bring it to the perfect consistency."

"Oh my gods," Hermione breathed as her stomach gurgled.

"It waits for us now, Hermione, in my office, steaming, ready to be strained . . . a mouth-watering cup at a time, through a fine sieve, those delectable pieces of lobster so rich and flavorful, ready to be consumed, enjoyed, swallowed down, a burst of ecstasy in every luscious bite and slurp . . . "

"All right!" Hermione hissed, standing up and turning to face him, "I'll come, damn it! But I swear, Severus . . . you play the game so dirty."

The dark wizard smirked at his lover, his black eyes full of rare mirth.

"That should come as no surprise, Hermione," he purred, giving her a light kiss and escorting her from her office.

"Dirty is how I like it."

* * *

A/N: Ah, food seduction. ROFL. I wanted to do something different, and food really can be sexy. I just thought it would be funny for Severus to get Hermione into his rooms by seducing her with a recipe. Lol. Anyway, thanks for reading. Tomorrow is my birthday by the way. I'm going to be 47. I'm going to try to celebrate it today since Chi is home and I don't have to baby-sit. I won't be doing anything much. I have about 15 dollars. I was thinking I could get a lb of King Crab claws and treat myself. Things are so tight around here, that's as good as it gets. And, it's good enough. :)


	10. A Meeting in the Corridors

**Chapter 10 A Meeting in the Corridors**

When Artimus returned from visiting Steede, he entered the quarters to find Dahlia was well into reading "Hogwarts, a History." Since she was occupied, the sorcerer asked Kreacher to show him around the castle. The elf agreed, of course.

As they entered the Entrance Hall heading for the marble staircase and the first floor, Artimus stopped to examine a life-like painting of a rather soppy-looking witch standing in a meadow.

Imagine the sorcerer's surprise when the witch scowled, put her hands on her hips and said, "Eh now! Don't you know it's rude to stare?"

Startled and astonished, Artimus replied, "Oh, forgive me. I didn't know you . . . you could see me."

"Next time take a picture," the witch snapped, turning her back to him. He blinked at the portrait a few times, then he and Kreacher headed up the stairs.

"Are there many portraits that . . . that are alive here, Kreacher?" he asked the elf.

Kreacher nodded.

"Yes, there is Sir Cadogan near the South Tower, women and monks near the North Tower, the Big Lady, a mermaid where the prefects bathes . . . very naughty, and others," the elf replied.

Artimus shook his head. Nothing in this world seemed to follow natural laws.

As they walked, Artimus looked up at the shifting stairwells above them. There seemed to be no access to them from the first floor landing.

"How do you get to those stairwells?" he asked Kreacher.

"There is many staircases at Hogwarts," Kreacher said, "we musts go up a flight to ride the stairs."

They turned down the first floor corridor, walked past both the History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts classrooms and ran right into Severus and Hermione, who were about to walk up the stairs to the second floor. The Headmaster frowned at the sorcerer.

"Mr. Rogue, it is after curfew," he said to the sorcerer imperiously. "No one is to be out and about the school at this hour."

Artimus didn't know he was to stay in his rooms. True, Snape had told him he expected him to "follow the rules" but no one had told him what the rules were. Besides, he wasn't a student. Nine o'clock was far too early for him to retire. But, the sorcerer held his tongue concerning that.

"I didn't know," he said, "I asked Kreacher to show me the castle."

Severus scowled at Kreacher.

"Well, Kreacher knew," he said coldly as the elf's ears flattened.

Suddenly, Kreacher ran toward the closest stone wall headfirst at full speed, Hermione letting out a shriek as the little creature reacted as all elves did who gave bad service. He was going to punish himself.

But Artimus had quick reflexes and dove after Kreacher, grabbing him and pulling the elf back as he struggled.

"What are you doing?" he said to Kreacher, struggling to hold him. The elf was stronger than he looked. "Kreacher! Stop struggling!"

Suddenly, Kreacher calmed. He was given a direct order after all. He stood there, looking at the floor, ashamed and quivering.

"What was he doing?" Artimus asked Snape. "Why did he charge the wall like that? He could have injured himself."

Hermione answered him.

"He was going to punish himself for giving bad service," she said softly, looking down at Kreacher sympathetically.

"Bad service?" Artimus said, "he didn't give bad service. He did what I asked him to do."

"House elves have a code, Mr. Rogue. If they do something that displeases whom they are serving, they punish themselves," Snape told the wizard.

Artimus stared at Snape, then looked down at Kreacher.

"Why?" he asked, and once again it was Hermione who answered.

"The behavior is thought to go back to when they were free. They had a very strict code of honor among their tribes. Before they were enslaved, when an elf did something dishonorable, they . . . they . . ."

Hermione couldn't bring herself to say it. But Severus could.

"They killed themselves. Usually by disembowelment. Similar to Hari-Kari," the wizard purred. "They've toned it down since becoming servants, probably because by killing themselves, it would be an even worse service to a master who needs them."

Artimus turned the elf around.

"Listen Kreacher, you didn't give me bad service. I am very happy with your service," the sorcerer said to him kindly.

"He didn't do it because of you, Mr. Rogue, he did it because of me," Snape informed him. "He is assigned to you, but his primary service is to Hogwarts, of which I am in charge. He knew I was displeased and acted accordingly."

Artimus took this in and studied Snape thoughtfully. He didn't seem at all disturbed that Kreacher was going to nearly bash his head in. But Artimus realized that this behavior was normal and accepted in this world, and Snape probably just took it as a matter of course, although Hermione looked quite upset.

Finally he spoke.

"I'm presuming that your orders override my own, Mr. Snape," the sorcerer said slowly, "so would you please instruct Kreacher not to punish himself during his time as my escort? I will return to the dungeons and from this moment forward I will be sure to ask him if what I request is permitted from now on."

Now it was Snape's turn to study Artimus. Obviously, his soft spot didn't only extend to his horse. The dark wizard's eyes shifted to Hermione for a moment, and the look of approval in her eyes told him he'd better do as the sorcerer asked if he hoped for more than bisque when they got to his quarters.

"Very well. Kreacher, from this point until your service to Mr. Rogue is finished, you will not punish yourself in any manner concerning your service," he said to the elf.

"Yes, Headmaster," the elf croaked, still looking at the floor in shame. "Kreacher will not punishes himself while in Sorcerer Rogue's service."

Both Hermione and Severus looked rather surprised at how Kreacher spoke of Artimus. Earlier, he had been "the thing." Obviously, the two had a meeting of the mind.

"Good. Now, please escort Mr. Rogue back to his quarters," Snape said evenly.

Artimus nodded.

"Good night Headmistress. Headmaster," the sorcerer said, turning back toward the marble staircase, Kreacher sullenly leading the way, his bat-like ears still flattened.

"He has a kind heart," Hermione said, watching them depart.

"A definite weakness," Severus replied, his nose wrinkling slightly as they reached the landing and descended the stairs. Then he looked at Hermione.

"I suppose you think that a plus," he said to her, "soft, mushy heart that can be turned at the slightest inclination."

"Well, I don't think a kind heart is a weakness," she said as they ascended the narrow stairwell.

Severus snorted.

"It is when you're supposed to be at war, Hermione," he replied.

* * *

"I find both of them fascinating, Severus," Hermione said as she sat across from the wizard, enjoying her bisque. It was every bit as delicious as the wizard promised.

"Yes, I agree," he replied, shocking Hermione.

"Really? Usually, you don't find anything 'fascinating,'" Hermione responded, staring at the wizard, who continued spooning soup into his mouth for a few seconds before answering her.

"They have magic that operates on a completely different level than ours, have access to a world we didn't know existed, travel in a manner completely alien to us and can probably withstand our strongest spells. Of course I find that fascinating. But I'm not going to fawn over them because of it," the Headmaster replied. "It's bad form."

"I find their creation magic very interesting. Imagine, making actual living creatures. Golems pale in comparison," Hermione said, fishing a large piece of lobster tail out of her bisque and eating it, a look of pure bliss crossing her face

"Yes, but there are drawbacks. Such as their creatures feel pain and must eat," Severus said. "A golem feels no pain and has no need for sustenance. We are not limited to how many we can create at one time and they can last longer than a week."

"But we can't make them instantly, or replace them instantly when they expire. We have to mold them from clay and then wait to finish the rest of the process," Hermione countered. "When the number of their creations falls below seven, they can create another from what I understand from Dahlia. So actually they can create an unlimited amount of constructs."

Hermione and Severus discussed the pros and cons of the sorcerers' magic as they understood it over their late meal, then had a bit of a row concerning whether or not they should report the sorcerers to the Ministry of Magic.

Hermione believed they should as the discovery of another form of magic was rather earth-shattering.

Severus disagreed.

"If we told of Mr. Rogue's and Miss Joiner's arrival, no doubt we would be up to our ears in Aurors who would then take them to St. Mungo's and subject them to all types of studies. They'd be treated like lab nifflers, Hermione. You know that. Besides, I am certain they wouldn't go easily and someone would end up being injured if not outright killed," the Headmaster said with a scowl. "While they are here, they are my responsibility, and I would be less than a responsible host if I turned them over to the machinations of the Ministry."

"But Severus, the other teachers know about their powers and differences," Hermione said to him, "someone is bound to let it slip."

"I took care of that. What goes on in Hogwarts stays in Hogwarts," he replied darkly. "They are under oath not to discuss our guests with anyone outside of the school."

Hermione shook her head. Severus ran Hogwarts with the same alacrity he used to run Slytherin House with. He gave out information only on a need to know basis . . . to everyone. He was nowhere near as expansive as Albus had been. If Hogwarts wasn't so large, he might have made it entirely unplottable, like Durmstrang.

But one thing was obvious, and that was Severus, as unpleasant as he was acting actually did have the sorcerers' best interests at heart, much as he did the wizarding world years ago when he served as a spy for the Order. She should have realized he would, in his snarky way, protect them as he protected everyone within his sphere of influence.

If Hermione had been the one in charge, in her excitement she would have made a grievous mistake in alerting the Ministry of the sorcerers. Severus was absolutely right. Like any governmental agency concerned with the security of its environs, the Ministry would have wanted to thoroughly investigate Artimus and Dahlia and decide if they and their kind were a threat to their world. More than likely they would want to develop a way to get through their magic as well, in case they did feel there was a danger. And that meant imprisonment and experiments, no matter if they labeled it "investigation."

There was a reason Severus Snape was Headmaster. And that was because he deliberately thought things through before taking any action. There were benefits to being Slytherin.

The wizard wiped his mouth and looked at Hermione, trying to frame his next statement. He wasn't sure if she was over his assigning Kreacher to Artimus, although they seemed to have reached a mutual understanding.

He needn't have worried. His response to Hermione concerning the Ministry made her recall just what she loved about him the most . . . his protective nature, and how he tried so hard to make it appear he cared little about others. But no man could be so vigilant concerning the welfare of others and not care.

Not even Severus Snape.

Hermione knew it was more than duty, although much of it could be pride. Regardless of what motivated him to be the way he was, a man who cared as much as Severus Snape was worthy of love.

And she had all he needed and more.

"I think it's time for me to retire, Severus," the witch said softly, rising before he could get up to pull out her chair, "thank you for the bisque."

The wizard looked disappointed. It seemed she was still miffed at him.

"So, you're leaving me?" he asked her a bit sourly.

Hermione walked around the table, leaned and planted a kiss on his pale cheek.

"Actually, I'm joining you," she replied with a little smirk, turning and walking up the hallway that led from his office to his private quarters.

The wizard watched her for a moment, then quickly rose from the table and followed her.

* * *

A/N: I'm kind of sick tonight . . . very nauseous, which is a rarity for me. I hope I'm not coming down with a stomach virus. But I wrote anyway. Didn't want to wait too long without posting. I see the orchard ahead. Ah, lemons. How I've missed them. This story has a rather slow start but it should be picking up shortly, and big time. I have . . . plans. :rolling hands evilly: Thanks for reading.


	11. Retiring

**Chapter 11 Retiring**

Artimus and Kreacher returned to the dungeon area, the sorcerer letting himself in and latching the door behind him with his wand, checking it. Apparently, his magic worked on inanimate objects in this world. He looked around the living room. Dahlia had retired and the flames in the fireplace burned low. The sorcerer looked down at Kreacher, whose ears were still flattened.

"I'm going to retire now, Kreacher. What will you do?" he asked the elf.

"Kreacher goes to his cupboard in the kitchens," the elf replied, "and thinks about his poor service."

Artimus shook his head as the elf winked out. At least he wouldn't be injuring himself. He sighed and walked into the bedroom to find Dahlia fast asleep in the four-poster, her long hair fanned out around her. She was in a white sleeveless t-shirt and he imagined, panties. Her curves were quite appealing beneath the green silk sheets.

But it had been a long day for both of them, and he wasn't comfortable enough for sex, or even motivated at this point. He did need Dahlia's presence though. She was familiar in an otherwise unfamiliar world. A bit of home that he could find solace with.

He stripped down to his boxers and placed his clothing on the chair, quietly lifting the sheet, climbing into bed and laying down next to the sorceress, who instinctively shifted closer in her sleep. Artimus smiled as her broad nose pulsated as she breathed. Dahlia was self-conscious about its width and once had talked about "getting some work done" on both her nose and buttocks.

Artimus was horrified by even the idea of her surgically altering her features and curves, and quickly launched into "Oh no you don't!" mode, although with a bit of finesse. Nothing set Dahlia off worse than being told what she could or could not do. He'd found out early that persuasion worked better than demands when it came to his lover.

"Dahlia, your ass is mostly muscle. There's nothing a surgeon can do about that, and if something goes wrong, you can end up completely flat back there. Besides, it's beautiful," the sorcerer assured her, caressing the butt in question lasciviously.

So far, Dahlia hadn't pursued the matter. The power of persuasion coupled with a few lusty bouts of rough and slightly raunchy appreciation of her assets had silenced her for the time being.

Sex was a visual act as well as a sensate one, and Artimus enjoyed seeing Dahlia's ample attributes bounce about rhythmically whenever they engaged. It was the way it should be after all. Actually, he loved everything about Dahlia, from her broad nose to her full lips, to her hair that wouldn't hold a curl to save her life, to her ample hips and ass that went on for days. As far as he was concerned, she was perfect. There was nothing flabby or loose about her either because she kept in shape by doing her Aikido exercises daily, focusing on keeping her fighting skills up to par.

Dahlia was like a lot of women, believing herself to be lacking when she was perfectly fine. A common mistake among the fairer sex. Most men hardly ever notice any physical imperfections in a woman they are sincerely attracted to, their focus usually on what they find most attractive rather than what isn't.

They just weren't that complicated.

Artimus pulled Dahlia into him, spooning around her firm, curvaceous body with a satisfied sigh. No matter where they were, wrapped up under silk sheets in a castle dungeon or sleeping by a campfire under the stars, the sorceress made everything feel right in his world.

That was also the way it should be.

* * *

Severus entered his bedroom and watched as Hermione turned down the bed sheets in the familiar, intimate manner that he had come to deeply appreciate. His eyes rested on her, the curly, not quite so bushy brown hair, the intelligent brown eyes, her no-nonsense manner as she prepared their bed, and began to unbutton his robes.

"I was under the impression you might not wish to . . . keep me company tonight," he said to the witch as his pale fingers moved down the front of his robes.

Hermione began removing her robes as well.

"And why would you think that?" she asked him, knowing exactly why.

The stunt he pulled with Kreacher.

"Because I had displeased you by assigning Kreacher to see to Mr. Rogue's needs," Severus replied, opening his robes and revealing his slender body, girded only in a pair of white briefs, black socks and boots.

After all these years, he still wore next to nothing under his billowing black robes as if he'd thrown aside for good all the ragged, oversized, mismatched Muggle clothing of his youth along with the heritage of his cruel father, donning only the garb of his greater inheritance, his true birthright.

Yes, Severus Snape was a half-blood . . . but his true inheritance was that of a Prince. Magic from his mother's side and that was what he gravitated to the moment he joined the wizarding world proper.

The Headmaster hung his robes in the wardrobe, giving Hermione a view of his scarred back, the shiny raised marks he took for the sake of the Order. For the sake of them all.

Hermione answered him honestly as she parted her robes, revealing a simple pull over t-shirt, jeans and trainers. Her robes were just long enough to hide them. She liked to be comfortable when walking the Halls of Hogwarts.

"Well, I was less than pleased about it, Severus, but you were well within your rights to assign him. I might have still been angry about it except that the two of them seem to get along now after a rocky start," she replied softly, watching as he sat down on a small wooden chair against the wall and removed his boots then socks.

"Yes, I was within my rights, although I must admit I was rather surprised to see they get on so well," Snape replied, removing his briefs, his long, flaccid member falling into view, looking for all the world like a miniature elephant's trunk.

Hermione smirked at him as she pulled her t-shirt over her head, revealing her simple cotton bra.

"And slightly disappointed, I imagine," she added.

"Actually, no . . . I wasn't," Severus said, striding across the room and getting into bed, sliding over to the wall and leaving room for the witch, watching as she continued undressing. "It gave me a bit of information on the mettle of the sorcerer. How he reacts to conflict and hard situations. At least I know he is an adaptable individual who knows how to make the best out of a situation. Kreacher is a test for anyone. He managed to handle the situation . . . admirably."

Hermione left her clothing on the small wooden chair to be collected by the elves. They needed cleaning, then pulled open one of the three dresser drawers, withdrew a long silk green nightgown with thin straps and slid it over her body. She turned to face Severus.

"Are you telling me Kreacher was a test?" she asked him, her hands on her hips.

"Of sorts," Severus replied, his eyes resting on her rounded curves. "Despite his whining about what happened to his horse, it appears complaining is not Mr. Rogue's natural inclination. He handles his problems himself rather than relies on others and has the ability to make a difficult situation bearable. Adaptability is a good trait."

Hermione shook her head and entered the loo, used the facilities and brushed her teeth before returning, Severus holding up the sheets so she could slide into the four-poster bed beside him. She lay on her back looking up at the wizard, who looked down at her soberly.

"I never know what's going on with you, Severus Snape," Hermione said to him softly. "You seem to have a purpose to everything you do, and it's rarely as diabolical as it seems to be in retrospect."

Severus quirked his lip.

"But . . . I can be quite diabolical, Hermione," he purred at her. "Take you for example, my delightful little Gryffindor. My motives in having the elves prepare that delectable bisque were entirely selfish. A light, delicious meal that would satisfy you, but not leave you feeling weighted down. In other words it left room for . . . my concept of 'dessert.'"

"And what is on the 'menu' for desert tonight, Severus?" she asked him, trying not to grin..

The dark wizard's eyes drifted down the silk sheets, then suddenly he ripped them away from Hermione's body with a leer.

"My favorite. Hermione pie," he hissed, diving in and locking his mouth to hers hungrily.

* * *

A/N: Very sorry for the shortness of this chapter. I'm not feeling too well, but got out what I could. More soon. Thanks for reading.


	12. Behind Closed Doors

**Chapter 12 Behind Closed Doors**

Those who believed Severus Tobias Snape to be a cold, unfeeling individual without warmth were sadly mistaken. But then again, they had nothing to show them otherwise, unlike one Hermione Granger who was repeatedly flooded by his fire. If asked about his perceived coldness, she would definitely tell the inquirer, "No, Severus is not cold. He's reserved."

Yes, he was reserved, but that 'reserve' fell during sex like ice from a blazing furnace.

Being with the wizard intimately was akin to being on the rim of an inactive volcano that suddenly and unexpectantly erupted. One couldn't escape being engulfed and ultimately . . . burned.

Hermione had never been intimate with a wizard before Severus. She had dated Ron for three years, but they never made it to the point of sex. Although she cared about Ron deeply, even loved him in her way, it wasn't the kind of love that inspired deep passion or desire. They were friends, but had little in common other than Harry and their history. Intellectually and emotionally, they were unsuitable for each other, neither caring for the interests of the other. And friendship just wasn't a strong enough glue to keep them together, no matter how handsome or sweet Ron was. But Ron bounced back just fine. He began to date Lavender again, and now they were married with three children, ages two, two and one.

Lavender managed to get pregnant twice in the same year. Popping out babies the way she did made her the perfect Weasley.

Severus was neither handsome nor sweet, but he had depth, intelligence and he made Hermione feel special every time he let her into his world. She was the only one who could enter that lonely, complicated space and explore it, the only person who he would open up to and tell the motivations of his heart.

And she was the only witch on the face of the planet who made him long for connection. When she accepted him into her body, she grounded him, strengthened him, put him in touch with those aspects of life that had once been foreign to him. Hermione was the doorway to all he'd been denied. He kept it perpetually unlocked and available for entry.  
Now he craved that connection. It was his one addiction.

Of course, no one saw this outwardly. Headmaster Snape seemed as dark and cold as ever, and many people wondered how Hermione could remain involved with such an icy, unfeeling man. It was even whispered that he had slipped her a powerful love potion to secure her, although no one dared to make that accusation to his face . . . although Sybil Trelawney believed the opposite . . . that Hermione had spelled him in some manner, but that was only because she carried a torch of her own for the Headmaster.

One he threw water on time and time again.

Once again, Hermione found herself overwhelmed by the raw passion in the wizard's kiss. They had been together several years and still, when the former Potions master wanted her, his desire was always new, exciting and welcome. Severus covetously claimed her mouth, his lips and tongue devouring it, scouring it, the first taste of her endless, addictive bounty, his long pale fingers entwining in her hair, holding her secure as he kissed her. The wizard's kiss always seemed to scream the message, "You belong to me."

And if Hermione didn't pick up on it, he'd tell her in no uncertain terms, then set about showing her in an unmistakably way, jealously possessing every part of her.

He wasn't a brutal lover, but a thorough one . . . a man who paid attention to every nuance, every movement, every touch, every sound, every expression on Hermione's face to guide him, to tell him what gave her the most pleasure, determined no other man would ever lure her away from him because he was less than what she needed. He was all she would ever need.

It was as if Hermione was an intricate, complex potion Severus wished to brew to perfection using a careful combination of physical techniques to stir her senses, make her simmer, increasing his heat and bringing her slowly but unmistakably to a ready boil, then immersing himself deep inside her heat and setting their magic free.

Hermione shuddered as one pale hand loosened its grip in her hair, slid slowly down her neck and over her shoulder, deftly snagging the thin strap of her gown and taking it down her upper arm before moving to her waist, slipping over her hip and down to her thigh, gathering the silk and hoisting it upward before releasing it, the hand now caressing her belly before smoothing over her soft firm breast and grasping it lightly, squeezing gently, palming its roundness as the wizard let out a growl against her lips as her nipple hardened beneath his palm.

He pulled away from her mouth, looking into her brown eyes. He loved the passion reflected back at him, the desire that he could clearly see in her glistening, half-lidded orbs. She didn't see him as a gaunt, unattractive, greasy, unfeeling bastard. She saw what was behind those strongly raised defenses, what was behind the pale face, lank hair and sharp features staring back at her. She cared nothing for the surface . . . but what was beneath the surface. The courage, the strength, the vulnerability.

The man.

To Hermione Granger, Severus Tobias Snape was beautiful.

Severus kissed her again, then slowly pulled down the other strap, kissing her shoulder tenderly as he continued to caress her breast through the thin fabric of her gown, then rising to his knees, the sheet falling from his lean, scarred body and slowly pulled her gown down over her breasts and belly, Hermione lifting her hips so he could draw it further down over her thighs, calves, ankles and feet, tossing it carelessly out of the bed as he looked down at her body.

"I don't know why you bother dressing for bed on nights like this," he said to her softly.

"I like you to undress me," she replied, reaching for him.

"If that is the case, my dear, then we have a decidedly mutual interest," he purred, letting her pull him down and resuming his kisses, Hermione sighing into his mouth as that slender, but hard body covered hers, his warm mouth beginning its descent and worship of her skin, suckling, kissing, licking and tasting every inch of her, drinking in her scent and softness.

Severus listened to the witch's purrs and mewls of pleasure as his mouth moved over her skin, and he let his fingers graze her thighs before coming to rest at her core, gently delving into her moistness, Hermione letting out soft moans as he manipulated her delicate center. He was always gentle and focused, never rubbing at her as if she had no nerve endings, but finding her sweet spot and driving her to the edge with his touch. His hands were just as practiced and sure when attending her as when he brewed, knowing just what to add to the process . . . and when.

It was only when she let out that first cry of manipulated release, that he lowered himself to drink at her overflowing fountain, parting her undulating thighs, his lips and tongue paying homage to her sexuality at the apex of the temple that was Hermione Granger, despite the fact that at this point the witch was attempting to tear his hair out by the roots as she wantonly pulled him against her core.

There was some pain with this pleasure, but Severus welcomed her unbridled passion and did nothing to resist, but accommodated her, getting as close and delving as deep as possible, his face covered with her juices, using his nose to stimulate her as well as his mouth, the scent of Hermione's arousal and release filling his nostrils as other parts of him filled with even more blood in anticipation.

He didn't miss a drop of her honey, cleaning her skin and folds with his tongue thoroughly before continuing his descent, kissing her thighs and moving down her legs, ignoring her protests as he usually did when she begged him to get down to it, as the wizard continued enjoying her body, running his mouth over the balls of her feet and heels, slipping his tongue between her toes and suckling each digit as Hermione squealed in protest.

With a smirk, Severus flipped Hermione to her belly and began his torturous ascent back up her body, Hermione attempting to rise to her knees and present herself, only to feel his hand splayed against the small of her back, keeping her down as he ran his supple tongue between the cleft of her cheeks.

"Severus! You bastard!" she sobbed, the wizard quirking his mouth for a moment before continuing to cover her body with licks and kisses. He loved when she lost it for him, craved him so hungrily that she became angry.

But he had the cure for her anger. Oh yes. Eleven thick, dripping inches of cure masterfully administered, guaranteed to feed the witch's need.

His tongue tapped a pattern on her spine as he moved upward, shifting his body now, so his swollen organ rested on her ass, heavy and hot, Hermione squirming under him. Raising himself on his hands, he pressed his loins downward and rubbed his cock over her soft flesh sensuously, his hair swinging around his face gently as he rolled his pelvis teasingly. Hermione's skin glimmered with perspiration, she was so heated and ready.

This was how it always was with Severus, a slow, measured foreplay that nearly drove her out of her head . . . and the foreplay was always one-sided. Except for kisses around his face, neck and shoulders and intimate caresses of his slim body and hardened organ, Severus did not allow her to do more. As passionate as he was for the witch, he had . . . hang-ups that dated back to his service for the Order and he never wanted to see his Hermione doing what so many women were forced to do at the revels. He knew for the witch it would be an act of love, but his psyche was damaged and fellatio was not an act he wanted to see the woman he loved perform.

For Severus Snape, it was all about Hermione's pleasure until he actually immersed himself into the bliss that was her body. It was then he received his reward, his blessing, that intimate connection he had never known before her. He had sex of course, but nothing as affecting as what he experienced with his one and only lover. It wasn't release for him with Hermione, it was finding that 'hold' he'd been missing all of his dark life and clinging to it, clinging to her. Whenever he touched her intimately, he wanted to be sure she knew how much he appreciated her, and to date, Hermione never once felt used or taken advantage of by the wizard.

Severus Snape knew a good thing when he had it, and he intended to keep this witch as long as he maintained breath in his body.

He lowered himself to her body, pulling her hair aside and letting his lips rest against her ear, running his tongue around the shell of it and rewarded with a groan and a shudder.

"Now?" he breathed into her ear, "like this, Hermione?"

"Gods, yes, Severus," Hermione gasped, aching for his entry, her body feeling as if it were clutching in upon itself with need.

"As you wish," he purred, pushing up to his knees, his hands encircling her waist, Hermione rising on all fours and pressing back against that thick, meaty extremity that held the answer to her need. She rolled against him, and Severus hissed.

"Anxious little witch," he breathed, pulling back and grasping his rigid cock with one hand and positioning himself at her core, Hermione letting out a moan at his thickness pressed against her entrance.

"Yesssss," Severus breathed, slowly thrusting forward and entering the tight, wet sleeve of her body, Hermione letting out a sigh of pleasure as his hardness and girth filled her inch by inch, giving her the connection she longed for.

Severus grasped her waist again and held himself deep inside Hermione, feeling her life pulsing around him, soft, compelling, his own answer for his own need for connection. He loved this initial moment, when their flesh met and became one, securely sheathed in not only the warmth of her body, but the warmth of her Love.

"Move, Severus," Hermione urged him, her voice quavering as she felt him smooth his hand over her buttock gently. Then he drew back, almost slipping out of the witch, and thrust, giving her a long, deep, satisfying stroke.

"Oh yessssss," Hermione hissed as his cock slid through her, a luscious inner caress checked by her cervix. "Oh gods, Severus."

The tremor in her voice was all the Headmaster needed to hear to know she was at her peak, and he began to make love to her in the manner she liked, starting off slowly, with straight, deep thrusts, his hands slipping over her body artfully, then increasing his speed, bouncing her body gently, leaning over her and telling her to turn her head and kiss him as he thrust a bit harder, Hermione crying out and doing as he asked, her kisses wild and uncontrolled as he possessed her body, now throwing in the twists and whirls that she liked, corkscrewing his cock into her body, stretching and stroking her at different angles, Hermione urging him on as his loins slapped against her.

He fell to the side, wrapping his long arms around her body, locking his mouth to her throat and spreading his legs wide, filling her over and over, his eyes rolling up with pleasure as her pussy clutched and sucked and bore down on him, the witch tightening up purposely, wanting to feel every bit of his girth as he took her, his hands moving to her breast and holding them, his thumbs flicking over her nipples as she cried out, her delight increased by his crooning voice, soft, deep and pleasure-filled as he buried his cock in her deeper. Gods, Severus always sounded sexy, but when he was fucking her . . . there was no measure to just how wonderful and exciting that silky timbre was.

Severus rolled to his back and Hermione wasted no time mounting him, facing away and rising up and down on her heels, controlling the depth and speed this time, driving down on him passionately as Severus held on, his hands cupping her ass, helping to lift her, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a grimace of delight as he watched his glistening tool disappear and re-emerge from between her soft, rippling cheeks, covered with her lubrication. He could feel himself tightening, his balls beginning to draw up as he approached his peak. He gently pushed a gasping, sloe-eyed, completely gone Hermione off him, rolled her to her back and mounted her, trapping her legs over his arms and thrusting deep inside her, his body going into automatic as he buried himself completely in the witch, fast and deep, his face in a dark scowl and perspiration dripping off his body on to Hermione as he fought to keep going, to hold his climax back just another minute, a few more seconds until . . . until . . .

Hermione let out a keen and gushed over him, his cock squelching through her as he was engulfed in a delicious torrent of pulsing heat, and then . . . it was his turn and the dark wizard let out a series of grunts as his release shot through him, spurting hot thick come into Hermione's welcoming body, the witch shuddering beneath him as he stared down at her, her lips pursed and nostrils flared with satisfaction, her eyes closed as she felt him orgasm and fill her. Severus dropped down, kissing Hermione weakly, letting her legs down and feeling himself deflate inside her warmth. This was the part he wished never had to happen, the part when they separated, where they became individuals again.

As he kissed Hermione and felt her arms encircle his neck as she whispered endearments between lip contact, Severus thought he'd soon have to marry her.

Very soon.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this took so long to post. It was a bit hard coming . . . I hope it was all right. Thanks for reading.


	13. In the ROR

**Chapter 13 In the ROR**

When Artimus awoke curled around Dahlia the next morning, his attitude about sex had altered significantly, the adjustment in attitude probably having a lot to do with his usual morning hard-on. He snuggled against the sorceress, pressing his swollen organ into her large cushy buttocks.

Her eyelids fluttered.

Artimus pulled her long hair back, nuzzled then kissed her throat, rubbing himself against her sexily.

"Wakey, wakey," he crooned as she shifted and sighed, turning her head, her sleepy hazel eyes opening, looking into his heated eyes as he kissed her lips gently.

"What time is it?" she asked him softly as one of his hands moved over her belly, pulling up her t-shirt and smoothing over her skin.

"Time to feed the animal," he said with a smirk, poking her in the ass boldly now.

Poked fully awake, Dahlia suddenly sat up, pulling out of Artimus' arms.

"Hey now," the wizard scowled, "I need you lying down . . . unless . . . well I don't mind playing buckaroo."

Artimus obligingly rolled to his back and pulled down the front of his boxers, his large pink cock popping to attention, straight, throbbing and ready for action.

"Hop aboard," the sorcerer grinned at Dahlia.

They had the easy banter of two people comfortable with each other and used to having a bit of fun between the sheets as well as passion.

Instead, Dahlia hopped out of bed.

"Hey," Artimus protested, his dark eyes resting on her t-shirt and panty-clad bottom.

Cletus, those curves.

" . . .is for Steede. I've got to go do my morning workout, Artimus, plus I'm not in the mood. I'm not comfortable enough," she said, looking over at the silent mirror.

It might not be saying anything, but Dahlia had a sneaking suspicion it could still see.

"I'll cover up the mirror with a sheet," Artimus offered, stroking his erection and looking at her longingly. Hell, maybe he could tackle her.

"No, I really want to go work out Artimus. Besides, you spent the whole day with Steede yesterday. Don't you think I need a bit of quality time too before you climb all over me?" she asked him, her hands on her hips.

"I'm trying to give you quality time," he replied, thrusting his hips up a little and making his organ sway . . . hopefully invitingly. "I've got one hundred percent beef right here for you Dahlia. Unprocessed and no fillers. You can't get better quality than that."

Dahlia chuckled despite herself. Artimus was so cute when he was horny. Still, she had things to do. Working out was just one of them.

"I said no, and I mean no, Artimus. Maybe tonight, all right?"

Dahlia walked into the bathroom, her luscious, shifting bottom rolling right behind.

Artimus lay in the bed scowling, wondering if he'd be able to overcome the sorceress if he went for her when she came out of the bathroom. The two lovers had an understanding of sorts, and liked their sex a bit on the rough, wild side, though there were tender moments too. Their sexual relationship could be summed up in six simple little words:

To the Victor goes the Spoils.

That worked both ways of course. Dahlia could throw Artimus on his ass quite easily, and often did when he decided to go Neanderthal on her, but it was a fun game . . . and she did "Horny, Demanding, Semi-Sadistic Cavewoman" quite well. Sometimes there was a bruise or two, but that was all part of the process.

"Don't try it, Artimus. I can hear you plotting from here," Dahlia said, unrolling some toilet paper as she sat on the loo.

"What do you mean you can 'hear' me? I'm not saying anything," he groused, knowing her warning meant that most likely she'd wrestle him into submission and he still wouldn't get anything. Sometimes when Dahlia beat him, she'd take sexual control, but it was easy to see she wasn't having it today.

Damn it.

Artimus pulled his boxers back up with a scowl, letting the elastic snap loudly as Dahlia flushed the loo and gave herself a light wash-up. She'd shower after her workout.

"Bluebell?" she called hopefully.

Instantly, the elf winked in. She couldn't see into Dahlia's mind but she could listen for her diligently. She bowed.

"Good morning, Miss," the house elf squeaked, carrying her clothing from yesterday, cleaned and folded.

"Good morning, Bluebell," Dahlia greeted her as she started brushing her teeth.

In the bed, Artimus let out a groan. The house elf's arrival was the final proof there'd be no snatch attack this morning. As Bluebell walked out of the bathroom and put away Dahlia's clean clothes, Artimus rolled back over and bad-naturedly pulled the pillow over his head, not that pouting ever worked with Dahlia.

He could hear Dahlia talking in muffled tones to the elf, and the elf replying for several minutes. Then there was silence. Slowly he pulled the pillow off his head, and sat up, looking toward the open door of the bathroom. He didn't see Dahlia.

He got out of bed, his boxers still tented and padded into the bathroom.

Both elf and sorceress were gone.

Artimus sighed and used the loo, lifting the seat, grasping the base of his swollen organ and aiming it so he'd hit a little chipped spot at the back of the bowl.

Bull's eye.

"Well, I least I hit something this morning," the sorcerer growled, shaking himself off, flushing the loo and removing his boxers.

He'd just take a shower and call Kreacher then. Maybe after breakfast, the elf could find him a bit of weed.

Of course, he'd have to find out if it were "allowed" first.

* * *

Dahlia had a nice little workout in the Room of Requirement. It seemed to function fine for the sorceress, although all it needed to provide were mats as Dahlia went through her dance. Bluebell watched fascinated.

"I never sees anyone works out this way," she said to Dahlia as she twisted and dipped her body rhythmically, slipping and locking up opponents in her mind as she did so. "It looks like you dances."

Dahlia gave the elf a small smile, but didn't answer, then frowned slightly as she remembered what Gregory called her workout, "The Dance of Death."

Dahlia wished he were wrong, but he wasn't. Whenever she met clerics she had to use her skills to kill them . . . to keep them from coming back. Her aikido skills were being used for more than self-defense, they were being used to purposely take lives. He sensei would be so disappointed in her.

But . . . this was war . . . and in this case, killing clerics was self-defense, because if they lived, they would just return. Any sorcerer they captured would be killed as well, so the violence was necessary, even if the use of it always left her feeling as if there were boulders in her belly. There had to be a way to end the madness. One day her dance wouldn't be a dance of Death, but one of joy, freedom and simple skill.

Dahlia hair was twisted into a tight bun and she wore white trainers, white sweat pants and a white t-shirt that clung wetly to her body, a black sports bra visible underneath. Despite how fluid and easy her moves appeared to be, they were performed with intense focus and concentration and the sorceress perspired freely.

After about forty-five minutes, Dahlia completed her workout, a fluffy white towel appearing at her feet. She wiped herself off and the towel disappeared out of her hands the moment she was finished. The mats disappeared as well.

"This is quite a handy room," she said to Bluebell, who nodded.

"Yes. It gives you what you needs," the elf said.

"Really? Anything?" Dahlia asked her.

"Yes, but no people. Just places and objects," the elf replied.

Dahlia's brows furrowed.

"Places? What do you mean places?" Dahlia asked the elf.

Suddenly a door fuzzed into the far wall. It wasn't a very exciting looking door. Just made of wood with an ordinary knob.

"What's that?" Dahlia asked the elf, who shrugged.

"Bluebell doesn't know. You musts looks," the elf said.

Dahlia slowly walked over to the door and pulled it open, blinking as sunlight flooded the room. There were rolling green fields, a huge white . . .building, like a castle or citadel in the distance. People in medieval clothing walked about, leading horses drawing carts, carrying bundles.

"What in the world?" she said softly, then froze as several men in robes ran towards her, waving clubs.

"Holy shit! Clerics!" Dahlia yelled, slamming the door closed. It immediately disappeared.

She looked at Bluebell with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"That was Damar," she breathed, "that was the city of the Antimage."

"What is Damar?" the little elf inquired, looking up at the sorceress.

"Damar is the answer to ending this war," she breathed, then grasped Bluebell's hand.

"Take me to Artimus, quickly!" she commanded.

They winked out.

* * *

Argus Filch happily finished polishing the last set of manacles, so they shined brightly. He added them to the pile on the counter. He was in his cramped quarters, preparing for his new role as Dungeon Master. He couldn't wait to get his arthritic hands on a student and fling him or her into the cell.

"Oh, Headmaster Snape is a blessing, a blessing for sure," the frazzled old caretaker breathed. "Finally old Filch is going to get some satisfaction, yes."

He gathered up the manacles and departed, his scraggly hair swinging and chains clanking merrily as he hobbled along, Miss Norris, a descendent of the original Mrs. Norris, trailing behind him, her tail held high like a standard as they marched toward the subdungeons, passing students looking at what the old caretaker carried with horror as they headed for breakfast.

As soon as the door closed, Kreacher winked in, looking around carefully.

"The old squib is gone," Kreacher said to himself, walking up to the small twin bed against the far wall and lifting the mattress. He pulled out a small cigar box and set it on the bed, opening it with one clawed hand and peering at the contents, his bat-like ears fluttering as the scent hit him.

"Yes, Sorcerer Rogue will likes this Happy Smoke," the old elf said, nodding, then picking up one of the little baggies that rested in Filch's personal stash.

He filled it with marijuana, carefully closed the bag and pocketed it, plucked out a couple of rolling papers, pocketed those as well, then returned the stash to its hiding place.

Grinning horrendously, the elf winked out, heading for Artimus . . . knowing he had provided very good service this time. Technically, marijuana wasn't legal, but tolerated at Hogwarts provided it was used with discretion by adults past the age of consent.

Filch had his little stash of potent weed for purely medicinal purposes of course. He claimed it helped his arthritis.

Judging by how long Filch had been smoking pot, he must have come down with the malady around the age of sixteen, poor soul and suffered with it ever since.

One thing we could be sure of, however.

Old Kreacher knew many, many secrets.

* * *

Artimus was just rolling the last joint up when an exciting Dahlia winked in, running up to the seat sorcerer immediately, then stopping . . . her eyes narrowing as she looked at the three joints on the coffee table. Kreacher stood by, smiling proudly. Sorcerer Rogue had been very, very pleased with the Happy Smoke.

"Where did you get that?" she demanded, pointing at the weed.

Artimus nodded toward Kreacher.

"Excellent service provided by my house elf of many hats," Artimus replied, grinning at creature. "They should call him a concierge rather than a servant. He can find anything."

Kreacher visibly swelled at the praise.

Dahlia looked at the weed consideringly.

"Is it any good?" she asked him.

Artimus showed her his sticky fingertips and she blinked.

"Be sure to save one of those for tonight,' she said, then got down to the business at hand.

"Artimus," she said breathlessly, "I saw . . . Damar."

Artimus looked at her, then down at the joints on the table, then at Bluebell.

"Are you sure you haven't been smoking, Dahlia?" he asked her, pocketing the joints and studying her.

"No, I haven't been smoking! I saw it. A door opened on it in the Room of Requirement. The holy city itself, Artimus! I could have walked through and been there," she said, her voice full of excitement.

Artimus snorted.

"It had to be an illusion," he said, "how could any door in this place open on Damar? They know nothing about the Antimage."

"Maybe the wizards don't, but this room, it's . . . it's special Artimus. It provides what's needed, or possibly what you dearly want," she said softly.

"But a whole city, Dahlia? I find that hard to believe. It doesn't follow the laws of physics either. For a door to open up on Damar from here, when no one even knows the coordinates . . ."

Suddenly, Dahlia caught the sorcerer's wrist and twisted Artimus' arm behind his back, holding his shoulder as a brace. She didn't hurt him, but she could if he didn't listen.

"God damn it, Artimus . . . don't question me on this. I know what I saw. There were even a couple of surprised and pissed off clerics present, as well as ordinary citizens. And I saw a big white palace of some kind . . ."

Artimus stiffened when she said this. He had been to the holy city on several occasions, and not by choice, but he had never described it to anyone because hardly anyone believe he'd been there.

No one escaped Damar even once and he had done it three times. He had the Bleeder marks to prove it.

But there was a white palace . . . or citadel, a huge place that housed the Antimage, his clerics and his offices and church. How would Dahlia know this if she hadn't seen it?

"Let me go, Dahlia, and take me to this room," he said, his eyes hard.

Access to Damar?

He had been waiting for this since he was eighteen years old and clerics slaughtered his parents right in front of their neighbors. He had been somewhere else, on a quest for knowledge concerning his biological father. His last name was Rogue, the name of his adopted father, but when he turned eighteen, his mother presented him with a ring and told him the name of his true sire, Rota Carr. She said he was a Lemurian.

Artimus had been hurt and angry, although his father Elijah loved him dearly. He told his mother she was making up stories and to tell him the truth, but she didn't have anything more to tell him. When she met Rota Carr she had been a new addict on the streets of New York. She was eighteen and had ran away from her stepfather, who raped her after her mother died a few months before. She had slept with Rota to get money for drugs. Instead, he temporarily removed her addiction, gave her his entire billfold which contained quite a bit of money and gave her a new start in life. She moved to Quaker, Missouri where the "Friends" had a small facility for women in trouble. She met a young Quaker named Elijah Rogue and married him shortly before Artimus was born.

"There is no such place as Lemuria!" he raged at her

But he found that there was such a place, and that his relatives were less than overjoyed to see him, although they were quite happy to see his ring, which they tried to kill him for. He barely escaped with his life. When he returned, his house was encircled with police tape, his parents buried, his half-sister living with relatives a few towns over and his fellow Quakers apologized for not being able to save his parents.

They were pacifists after all.

And up to that day so was Artimus.

Now . . . despite how mellow and caring the sorcerer was perceived to be, when it came to clerics . . . he was a killer. Up to this point, they had all the advantage. No one could find Damar, but clerics could walk through puddles with the aid of prayers and slaughter sorcerers at will in the magical realm as well as in the normal world. No one ever saw them coming until they were there.

But now . . . if there were a way to Damar . . .

everything could change.

* * *

A/N: Of course you all know, that I can't let them take Damar in any fashion. But I can let everyone meet the bad guys. And, believe me . . . they're bad. Lol. But it's getting interesting. Lol about Filch's stash. Heh heh. Anyw


	14. Damar

Chapter 14 Damar

Four nervous guard clerics waited in the small, sparsely furnished office that served as the High Cleric's receiving chambers. The room was made of smooth white stone and lit by clean-burning torches held in white sconces. A long bench rested against the far wall and it was here they nervously waited for their audience.

The walls were completely bare of adornments except for one painting on the wall behind the large wooden desk and comfortably upholstered high-back chair neatly pushed against it. A large, leather bound version of the holy text rested on the desk, along with a small skein of sheepskins, a bottle of ink and white feathered quills in a plain cup. Writing utensils were a luxury. Most clerics used a stylus and a writing board of wax to record anything. Then if the writing was to be saved, it was captured on very thin paper, the impressions transferred by the use of a soft charcoal so the words were visible.

A large, severe portrait of the current Antimage, Phileas Filial rested on the wall, staring at them disapprovingly from the frame. He was of a rather pasty complexion, had a head full of boyishly - curly reddish brown hair, narrow, cold brown eyes, aristocratic brows, a receding chin and thick lips. Short of stature and rather stout, the leader of Damar was dressed in white papal robes and cap, the sign of Tears hanging from a golden chain around his neck. The clerics all swallowed as they looked up at the portrait.

The constant intoning of murmured prayers rose and fell as the host clerics kept up their constant chanting and consumption of cleric wafers. These were protective prayers, used to protect the Antimage and his environs. They were continuous, the host clerics rotating every six hours so the prayers were never-ending. On the left was the door the High Cleric would enter from. The guards nervously waited, not speaking to each other.

After about half an hour, the door on the left opened and the High Cleric entered.

His name was Elam Heiss. He was tall, about six foot four, bald and slender, olive-skinned with deep-set black eyes, a full mouth, high cheekbones and a strong, square jaw. He wore blood-red papal robes and a red skull cap as he swept into the room, followed by a frail, somewhat birdish looking man in rather dingy white robes with a thin neck, protruding Adam's apple and quick blue eyes that darted about nervously as he stood to the right of Elam when he sat down. His hair was cut into a Mohawk, giving it a comb-like appearance, which only added to his chicken-like demeanor.

He was Donda Blushings, a recorder cleric. He carried a stylus and a number of thin pads with him, his duty to record what was said, and by whom.

Elam studied the four guard clerics and then said in a deep baritone voice, "The Blessings of the Antimage be upon you," by way of greeting.

"And upon you, my Lord," the guards intoned, looking at the floor in deference.

Elam got right down to business.

"I am told you saw an intruder," the High Cleric said, displeasure on his face. "You claim it was a sorceress."

All four men nodded, clasping their spirals, the pendants that glowed whenever they were in close proximity to sorcerers, provided they kept up their prayers and consumed their wafers, which were distributed each morning before they patrolled the streets of Damar. Although the practice had been going on for three centuries, this was the first time any spiral had glowed inside of Damar when no captured sorcerers were present. Usually only warrior and watcher clerics ever saw them work, the dull red of discovery flickering brightly. And always outside of the city. Up to this point, Damar had been considered impenetrable.

"Yes, my Lord. We were walking from the market area, heading for the residential, when suddenly our spirals began to glow. We looked about and saw . . . saw," one cleric said . . . faltering.

"Saw what?" Elam demanded, his eyes narrowing as his face twisted with displeasure.

"A kind of door in the middle of the road, and a woman standing in it, looking up at the sky. It was so strange, my Lord, it was a black space that we couldn't see beyond the woman. She was dressed in pure white, like an angel . . . but our spirals glowed so we knew she was one of the Corrupted," a second cleric said.

"They are deceptive," Elam said, "covering themselves to look innocent and pure when they are powered by darkness. Continue."

"We drew our clubs and tried to capture her while she was preoccupied, my Lord, but she saw us and she was startled and fearful. She pulled back and the door . . . disappeared as if it had never been there," another cleric said. "There was no trace of it left and our spirals ceased to glow."

"You should have been faster," Elam hissed.

"Forgive us, High Cleric," the men all intoned, falling to their knees and clasping their hands together in penance.

"Did anyone else see this sorceress?" Elam demanded.

"Several citizens saw something, but they didn't understand what it was they saw," another guard said.

"Have them brought to the citadel for 'understanding,'" Elam said to the guards, still frowning at them. "And you are all to deliver extra offerings as penance for your failure, scourge yourselves and double your prayers of supplication in hopes that Heaven will forgive your laxness. Be thankful the Antimage is merciful. You are dismissed."

Their eyes on the floor, the guard clerics left in great shame. No doubt the scourge would be applied with alacrity, their self-inflicted wounds deep and painful as well as visible above the collars of their robes as proof of their remorsefulness.

Elam's eyes shifted to Donda, who had recorded everything.

"The guard clerics are to double their shifts, thirty more men added to each," he told the recorder, "effective immediately. If there are not enough, call in a few of the older warrior clerics."

Donda bobbled his head in a chicken-like manner.

"Yes my Lord. Immediately," he said.

"And Donda, see that one of those clerics give a description of the sorceress they saw to an artist cleric. I want to be able to identify her should she be seen again. The image shall be handed out to all the clerics and citizens. If she is captured, she is not to be taken to the Chambers, but brought directly to me. I must know how she accessed Damar."

"Yes, my Lord," Donda replied, bobbing in a nervous bow, then hurrying out the door they originally entered through.

Elam sat at his desk, removed his skull cap and ran one large hand over his bald pate. This was a bad development. If sorcerers had found a way into Damar, then the terraforming and guarding of puddles at sunrise and sunset was useless. Not only that, but Damar itself would fall under siege. He had been working privately on a new prayer for the past three years, but he was not yet ready to reveal it. He had almost lost his life twice while applying it. But, if he could get it under control . . .

Elam's eyes narrowed.

He was next in line to be Antimage. Phileas was in his mid-seventies now, old and rather infirm. Elam was his trusted servant and voice to the people. He did more and more of the old cleric's duties, while he stayed in his chambers writing useless edicts and abusing his brides. He only appeared in public during the services now, to give his weekly message to the people. But, he had the Ring of Cletus, and that gave the old bastard power. If not for that ring, Elam would have been Antimage long ago, but it protected the Antimage from treachery, and he never removed it. It was true that use of the ring took years off a human wearer, but Elam couldn't risk being killed in the hopes that losing a few years would destroy the already aged Phileas. He had to bide his time.

The cleric looked thoughtful. Perhaps this new danger could be of use in some manner. Perhaps he could find a way to exploit it and speed up his ascension to the throne of Damar. It was time they had a strong leader, one willing to make changes to the lives of the people. There were so many technologies available, technologies that would make life in Damar easier. He could always pass them off as gifts of Heaven.

It was time to move Damar into the twenty-first century. He could still control their minds and hearts, keep them uneducated and fearful of Heaven's wrath. But he could do it with a wide screen HD television with a satellite dish.

Elam had been through the ranks of the clerics, and spent much time in the normal world, indulging himself in the lifestyle. Unlike most clerics, he was not a zealot. He quickly realized there was more to the world than killing sorcerers, and unknown to his comrades, had studied and learned about the world, not just to learn to live in it, but to embrace it.

Still, sorcerers had to be taken and killed, and not because they were abominations as the Antimage and his forebears taught the people . . . but because they were a source of great power, a power that was coveted, a power that was the greatest secret of Damar.

Without them, that power would be lost. And no Antimage wanted that. The war had to continue. The sorcerers had to be collected and bled.

Elam had to think and think hard as to what he would tell Phileas.

This could be an opportunity to be rid of the old fool once and for all.

He stood up and retired to his rooms to pray for guidance.

* * *

Artimus, Dahlia, Kreacher and Bluebell appeared in the Room of Requirement. Artimus looked around, totally unimpressed as Dahlia bit into the egg and tomato sandwich Bluebell insisted she take, since she wasn't going to breakfast. The little elf held a bottle of milk to chase it with. She had a job to do after all.

Artimus looked around the stone room, completely unimpressed.

"This is the magical room you told me about?" he asked Dahlia. "I don't see a door. I don't see anything but four damp walls. There's not even an entrance."

Dahlia swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and scowled at Artimus.

"I'm telling you, this room opened on to Damar, Artimus," she said, then looked down at Bluebell. "Bluebell, how do I get the room to produce the door?"

"You asks it," the little elf replied. "It will shows you what you wants most."

Artimus looked at the little elf, then at Kreacher, who nodded.

"Fine," Artimus said, then said,"Room, show me the way to what I want most."

Suddenly a door fuzzed in, ordinary and brown.

"There it is," Dahlia said excitedly, "but be careful Artimus. Last time there were clerics on the other side. Angry clerics."

Artimus conjured his crossbow and quiver, his face in a black snarl.

"What . . . what are you doing, Artimus?" Dahlia asked him as he told Kreacher to accompany him to the door.

"If there are clerics on the other side of that door, I'm going to show them what it feels like to be ambushed," he growled, "you stay back, Dahlia."

Horrified, Dahlia tried to stop him, pulling on his shirt. Artimus whirled on her, his eyes full of hate.

"Dahlia, let me go," he said in a low voice.

She stared at him, then slowly released his shirt. Artimus hated clerics with a passion and she knew why. It was a tragedy they both shared. She had lost her parents to clerics as well, although not together. Her father was killed first, overseas. She had been young. Seven years old and he was in the military and left her and her mother stateside. She had sent her teddy to him, to "protect" him.

Dahlia didn't know she was a sorceress, or that the things she handled constantly held her signature. The Protectors had her signature dampened so her abilities would not set off the cleric's spirals, but that little stuffed toy was put outside of her protection, and was immediately identified at the post office by a watcher cleric employed there, his spiral lighting up when he touched it. He gave the information where the package originated from to other watcher clerics, who passed it on to the warrior clerics, but Dahlia and her mother had moved without giving a forwarding address, going to stay with Mama Gigi for a while in Louisiana.

The package was tracked closely until it reached its final destination. Lieutenant Francis Joiner.

When his decapitated body was found, it was thought he was the victim of one of the many terrorist groups in the area. Decapitation was one of their usual modes of operation, and several claimed responsibility for his death. It was only after Dahlia was taken into the magical realm that the truth of his murder was revealed to her. She joined the Protectors as soon as she hit eighteen, which was the youngest a volunteer could be.

Dahlia thought she would get satisfaction from slaughtering clerics and avenging her father. But she didn't. She found that looking down on the bodies of dead clerics gave her nothing, nothing but more death. No matter how many she killed, she could never bring her father back. But she was committed now, and continued fighting clerics wherever they were found, all the while dreaming of a permanent end to the slaughter on both sides. Sorcerers were born to perfectly ordinary people. There was no way to ever wipe them out, which meant this war could continue as long as there were people on earth. A never ending slaughter, all meaningless. There would never be a victor.

Then, her mother Marie was killed, believed to be the victim of a serial killer, and the authorities did capture a man who would chop off his victims' limbs without any sexual abuse. He was a deviant who left the head for last, his victims still alive before he struck the killing blow, then stacked the parts neatly against each other, trunk in the center, arms and legs vertical and leaning against the trunk and the head resting on top of the severed neck. Dahlia's mother's death didn't quite fit his method. Only her head was removed, but they attributed it to him anyway, figuring he had been disrupted in his slaughter. The murderer was so insane, he never said anything different, so the case was closed.

Dahlia knew better, but she'd sound insane telling the authorities crazed clerics from some holy city killed her mother because her daughter was a sorceress. Besides, there were other sorcerers who lived in the normal world who would have done their best to discredit her. They did just fine without ordinary people knowing about them and despite not being a close knit society, would work together to shut someone the fuck up. No one wanted to be a guinea pig for science.

So, Dahlia continued her education, honing her magic, getting accepted into Finklenook and throwing herself into her research as much as possible, while serving as a Protector of the Realm and counselor for young sorcerers-in-training during the summer months. Like Artimus, she knew tragedy, but unlike him, she hated the war . . . not the warriors. She would only kill in defense of herself and others.

But everyone handled their private pain differently and all Artimus saw when he looked at clerics were robed murderers of innocents. It might be different if they only took sorcerers . . . but they didn't. They killed anyone that was intimately involved with them as well, whether they were magical or not. His parents had been Quakers. Kind, loving, faithful as well as pacifists. They would never lift their hands against another human being. Still, they were murdered, despite their faith in a loving heaven, and in front of their friends and fellow Quakers, who stood by and did nothing but plead impotently, and scream when they were summarily executed.

No one even called the police until after his parents were dead. If his half-sister Morgan had been home, she wouldn't have been spared either. Morgan didn't speak to him anymore. She knew he was a sorcerer because she had caught him using his magic, and begged him not to use it, that it wasn't right and evil. Quakers were notoriously open-mined, but Morgan was young and frightened. At the end, she blamed him and his magic for their parents' death. Although she prayed for Artimus constantly, she'd have nothing to do with him. But protections were kept on her and her family just the same.

Now, he could go on the offensive. Murder them like they murdered innocents. Dahlia sadly let him go, knowing that no matter how much the sorcerer loved her, this was something deep inside him that couldn't be soothed away by that love. Hatred was a powerful emotion, and the only emotion Artimus had when it came to clerics.

He nocked an arrow, pointing it at the door.

"Open the door, Kreacher, and get out of the way," he ordered, his dark eyes glinting.

Kreacher looked up at the sorcerer. He was strong and brave, not unlike his former master, Regulus Black.

"Yes, Sorcerer Rogue," the old elf said, flicking a hand at the door so it swung open.

Dahlia conjured her sword and ran to Artimus' side. If he were going to fight clerics, she'd be beside him.

The door opened, sunshine pouring through, blinding them for a moment before their vision adjusted. Artimus blinked, scowled and lowered his crossbow in disgust.

Dahlia let out a sigh of relief as both Kreacher and Bluebell walked up and peered through the door in disbelief.

It had opened up not on Damar, but on a glen in the magical realm. A bunch of dancing, frolicking Fey in fact. Leprechauns played fiddles, kobolds beat on drums and little horned satyrs played pan pipes as a large number of magical creatures danced about annoyingly. Elves, fairies, naked nymphs, hamadryads swinging from boughs of their trees, unicorns prancing on the fringes and ogres snapping their sausage-like dirty fingers and stomping their big dirty feet in time. It was a hullabaloo as they hopped about, more magical creatures exiting the forest to join the party. The Fey always partied. A few gremlins passed around a flask of very potent elderberry wine.

"Oh damn it," Artimus said with a sneer, letting his crossbow drop to his side. "It's the magical realm. I thought you said it opened up on Damar."

"Well, it did," Dahlia said, smiling at all the dancing Fey. Normally she found them annoying, but she was happy to see them this time. "Maybe you wanting to go home overrode your desire to see Damar."

"Nothing would override my wanting to kill clerics," he growled.

Kreacher's ears flattened as he looked up at Artimus. He wanted to tell him something.

"Excuses me Sorcerer Rogue, sir," the elf croaked.

Artimus looked down at him with a frown.

"The room not gives what one wants but what one needs, sir. You don't needs Damar. You needs to go home," the old elf said hesitatingly.

Artimus' face twisted.

"No fucking room's going to tell me what I need. I know what I need. Revenge. Closure. Dead clerics," he snarled, slamming the door shut. "Not a bunch of dancing Fey!"

"Show me Damar!" he yelled at the room. "Now!"

Suddenly, Kreacher winked out.

Artimus didn't notice, but Dahlia did. She also noticed that Bluebell's ears had flattened entirely against her head.

"What's wrong, Bluebell?" she asked the elf as Artimus continued demanding for the door to Damar to appear.

"The Headmaster," the little elf whispered fearfully, "he comes."

* * *

A/N: Whew. Artimus is pissed. Now we know Dahlia's background. Seems the ROR's not as helpful as it could be, eh?


	15. Feeling Each Other Out

**Chapter 15 Feeling Each Other Out**

When Severus and Hermione entered the Great Hall the next morning, the Headmaster immediately noticed the absence of both Artimus and Dahlia, as well as the decrease in chatter. He asked the staff if the couple had come to breakfast earlier and was told they had not. Thinking they would come along, he ate his meal slowly. Hermione finished her meal and excused herself to get back to work on sorting out students with recurring detentions for Severus' personal files. One by one the staff members and students departed, leaving Snape with only a smattering of company.

Finally, the wizard summoned Kreacher, who had been with Artimus and Dahlia in the ROR. By the elf's flattened ears, Severus knew not all was kosher in Hogwarts.

"Where is Mr. Rogue, Kreacher?" Severus demanded.

"He is in the Room of Requirements, sir," Kreacher croaked, rubbing his clawed hands together a bit nervously and not looking directly at the wizard.

Snape cocked an eyebrow at Kreacher.

"Is Miss Joiner with him?" he pressed.

"Yes sir," the elf replied.

"What are they doing?" he asked.

"They . . . they is looking for the war, sir," Kreacher replied, almost losing his voice completely.

"Looking for the war? What are you talking about Kreacher? Spell it out plainly," he said, irritation in his voice.

Kreacher recounted Dahlia telling Artimus she had seen the city, and clerics and how Artimus went to the room, made his crossbow and opened the door. But there was another place, and now he was trying to find the right place so he could kill the clerics.

Severus was at first shocked then angered. He grasped Kreacher's hand.

"Take me to the ROR directly, Kreacher before that fool sorcerer involves us in another war," he seethed.

* * *

Severus arrived in time to see Artimus with his crossbow aimed at a wooden door, which Bluebell opened magically. Sunlight flooded into the room and Artimus let out a curse as the Finklenook Institute of Higher Magical Learning and Research stretched across the landscape.

Dahlia looked at the familiar building longingly. But she couldn't abandon Artimus and Steede.

"Unless you are going to walk through that door, Mr. Rogue, I suggest you close it and put away your crossbow," Snape said, walking up to the wizard, his face neutral.

Artimus turned to face the Headmaster, his brows furrowed and nostrils flared. Didn't the wizard realize what a breakthrough this was? How they could take a pound of flesh from their enemies? At last, they could strike back and strike first.

"This room opens up on the city of Damar, Headmaster. The city of the Antimage, our mortal enemy. It is an opportunity to give them a taste of what they've given us for centuries," the sorcerer said to him.

Snape studied him.

"Mr. Rogue, there is no way I am going to allow you to use this school to launch an offensive on a society we have nothing to do with. By serving as your point of access, we could be considered your allies, and by association become part of this . . . altercation. I assure you, we've had our fill of pointless wars and have no desire to participate in another. Especially one that does not concern us. Now, your crossbow sir," Snape said coolly.

Artimus stared at him for a moment, then touched his wand which was sticking out of the waistband of his pants. The crossbow and quiver of arrows disappeared. Dahlia also made her sword disappear and moved closer to the sorcerer, who had a defeated look in his eyes. If only they could have access to Damar in their world.

"Oh Artimus," she said softly, stepping up to him and embracing him gently.

Artimus held her tightly, his eyes closed as she comforted him. Snape looked on for a moment, then in a rare gesture, said something completely out of character for the usually solitary wizard.

"Mr. Rogue, perhaps you would consent to joining me in my quarters this evening and discussing your situation over a few libations," he offered.

If Severus understood anything, it was impotent frustration in the face of adversity. He had gone through it for years as a spy for the Order. There had been times he wished he could just indiscriminately kill and kill and kill. But it would have served no purpose other than getting killed himself, so he had to plan, go for the small successes and bide his time. He didn't know the exact situation the sorcerers faced, but perhaps he could offer some advice, something Artimus could use.

One thing he couldn't offer however, was help.

Everyone had their crosses to bear. The wizarding world survived its burden. There was no way he was about to invite another weight for its shoulders after the horror that was Voldemort.

"Do it, Artimus," Dahlia said to him softly, "you need to talk to someone about this. Someone who's faced a powerful enemy before, and been successful."

"It wasn't just him, Dahlia . . . he had help. Assistance. Others willing to risk their lives," he replied softly, releasing her. "Something our world is sadly lacking."

"Well, you have me. I'm no army, but I'd lay down my life at your side anytime, Artimus. Plus, there are the Protectors. It's not completely hopeless. Please. Agree talk to him. It might help," she urged him.

Artimus blinked at Dahlia, and she gave him a small smile. He then looked at Snape's severe countenance and nodded.

"How does seven sound?" he asked the Headmaster.

"Acceptable, Mr. Rogue. I will leave you now . . . but I must tell you this. The ROR will not give you access to anything that could place this school or this world in danger. I highly doubt it will open on Damar again for either of you," the wizard said softly, then turned and exited the room.

Artimus looked at Dahlia and sighed.

"I must have looked like an idiot, trying to off a few clerics with a crossbow. It would have been inconsequential in the end," he said to her. "And Snape was right. I could have ended up involving them in a war that they have absolutely nothing to do with. They don't have any obligation to help us. They've won their war. To think they would risk their peace for complete strangers is ludicrous. I don't know what I was thinking."

"You were thinking you just want it to end, Artimus," Dahlia said to him. "You acted with your heart and not your head."

Artimus turned away from her, shaking his head slightly.

"I'm an educator, Dahlia. I am supposed to act with rationality, thought. You'd never know I held a position of authority the way I'm acting."

Dahlia walked around him so she could look him in the eye.

"It's always with us, you know. This war. The clerics. The Antimage. We try to live as normal a life as we can, Artimus . . . retain our perspective, our . . . humanity. We can push it to the back of our minds for a while, but . . . when it's thrown in front of us it's hard not to react. Access to Damar would level the field for us, Artimus. It could be a way to rally others to fight offensively, to be willing to go to the source. That fleeting possibility affected you, made you react the way you did. We can't always be in perfect control. Sometimes, it's better to let the rage out. That's what you did, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. If there's a way to end this war in our lifetime, we'll find it. You have to believe that," she said softly.

Artimus studied her.

"Do you believe that, Dahlia?" he asked her soberly.

The sorceress' eyes became a bit wet.

"I have to," she replied.

* * *

Artimus and Kreacher went back to the stables to see about Steede. Dahlia and Bluebell located Hermione, who was in her office, completing the filing of errant student records that Severus required.

He wanted to put them on his "Watch" list.

Dahlia knocked on the door and Hermione looked up, smiling as she saw the sorceress.

"Come in, Miss Joiner," she said, "I was just finishing up some paperwork for the Headmaster."

Dahlia sat down in the armchair facing Hermione's desk and watched as the witch reproduced the files in triplicate, then flicked her wand at two piles, sending them to the Headmaster and Filch's office. Then she inserted the other folders in a file cabinet behind her desk.

"There," she said, "I've made them so they are automatically updated whenever the Headmaster adds new information. That way I can check behind him without seeming to."

Dahlia smiled.

"I imagine it can be difficult working with a man like Mr. Snape," she said.

Hermione nodded.

"Well, difficult isn't quite how I'd describe it, more like challenging. He's a total authoritarian," the witch said, quirking her lip slightly.

Actually, Severus could be more like a dictator. He had issued quite a few castle-wide restrictions on students based on the actions of a few since he'd been in office. His theory was this would cause peer pressure on offending students.

"Correction and brow-beating by one's peers can be much more effective than punishments issued by 'the Establishment,'" he told Hermione when she protested a week-long curfew and cancellation of two Quidditch matches two years ago. It didn't help that Slytherin was ahead in House Cup points and would benefit from the cancellations.

"Purely coincidental," the wizard purred at her when she pointed it out, and then he imposed the punishment just the same.

Gods, Severus could be infuriating. But . . . damn it . . . effective.

Dahlia studied Hermione as she straightened up her desk, wondering if the vibe she received when she and the Headmaster were together was accurate. Snape didn't actually show any personal interest in the witch, but Dahlia could feel something was between them just the same. She was curious, and actually could see a relationship between them, despite Snape's dark demeanor. Both were heroes after all, and the Law of Attraction clearly and simply stated that "Like Attracts Like."

As Dahlia well knew, association could bring assimilation.

The sorceress didn't have many female friends, or friends at all for that matter. She had "associates." She did have a best friend though, Gregory Cummings, a fellow undergrad at Finklenook who had degrees in Biology, Information Technology and Computer Programming. He was also a Protector, and they had met fourteen years ago, when they were both suddenly "collected for camp" a euphemism for being snatched out of their homes when they turned thirteen and trained in the use of magic for eight weeks during the summer by counselors.

Unlike Hogwarts training, young sorcerers were placed in a rather "sink or swim" situation. After a very rudimentary explanation that they were sorcerers for no other particular reason than they were born that way, picked wands from a huge pile on a picnic table, told to point it at something and tell it what to do and watch the results. There were no complicated spells to learn. It was sort of point and shoot.

Then the counselors showed them some of the more advanced magic that they could do, such as create objects and living creatures, which instantly interested every young sorcerer. This excitement was short-lived, since they were informed they would have to attend various schools and learn the mechanics of what made things work before they could actually create them. They would have to educate themselves if they wanted to do better magic and it was only something they could do. The degree of their abilities corresponded with how much they were willing to apply themselves to study.

After about a week of practicing, the youngsters were placed in a large, circular fenced enclosure. Large boxes with pull up doors attached to pulleys, and ropes leading out of the area surrounded the students as all the counselors stood on the outside of the gates holding the ropes and wearing very disturbing smiles on their faces.

"Think of your wands like guns," one counselor advised as they all simultaneously pulled on the ropes, opening the boxes and releasing what was inside.

That had been quite the experience and a great way to show that sorcery had practical applications. Then they were informed about the War, shocked, dismayed and disbelieving that there were people whose only purpose in life was to capture them and kill them. They were even more dismayed to find out there were no sorcerer armies and these killers lived in the same places they did, worked in the local businesses and even were in government and educational positions.

"If they find out about you, not only will they attempt to take you, but they will kill your families and friends wherever they find them. So, if you care about the people in your life, you will not say anything about your magic and keep as low a profile as possible," they were told.

Usually, there would be at least one death among the youngsters every two years or so, someone unable to resist revealing their magical nature. Not that it could be proven however, since they weren't allowed to have a permanent wand until their eighteenth birthday. But even the rumor could have disastrous results if one of the watcher clerics got hold of it. All leads were investigated.

Another startling and sobering revelation was how long their life spans were. Five hundred years. At face value, it sounded wonderful, but soon the realization that everyone they knew who weren't sorcerers would be dust in a hundred years or less hit home. Parents, brothers, sisters, relatives and other loved ones all would die while they continued. Generations of loved ones and potential loved ones. The feelings of loneliness settled in long before the actual loss did.

Hermione looked at Dahlia and saw her eyes were unfocused and distant. She appeared . . . rather sad.

"A galleon for your thoughts," the witch said, smiling at the sorceress.

Dahlia blinked and looked back at her, slightly confused.

"A gallon of what?" she asked, and Hermione laughed.

"Not a gallon, a galleon," she replied, grinning. "A galleon is wizarding currency. There are galleons, knuts and sickles."

"Nuts?" Dahlia asked, grinning herself now. "Interesting name for coinage. Kind of rings of 'jewels.' Artimus' legs would clench together at the thought of it."

Hermione chuckled as she walked around the desk, leaning back on it.

"So, what did you plan to do with your day?" she asked the sorceress.

"Well, I was kind of hoping you had a few spare minutes to just . . . chat a bit, maybe show me around," Dahlia replied.

Suddenly there arose a huffy little squeak and both Dahlia and Hermione looked down at Bluebell, who stood with her ears quite erect and arms folded. The little elf looked so severe that Dahlia couldn't help smiling at her.

"Not that you're not excellent company, Bluebell, but I'd like to know more about witches and wizards . . . from the source. Your service is excellent. I didn't mean to imply that it wasn't," she said apologetically.

"I is to stay with you while you is at Hogwarts," the elf said, still frowning.

"Oh, you wouldn't be excluded, Bluebell . . . the Headmistress would just be . . . company, if she has the time that is," Dahlia replied, looking at Hermione hopefully.

Hell, Hermione would make time for this. She didn't have anything pressing to do. It would be a wonderful research opportunity as well. She could document everything Dahlia told her.

"Certainly, and more than a few minutes for such an interesting guest. But please Miss Joiner, call me Hermione," she said.

"And you call me Dahlia," Dahlia replied.

At last the initial lines in the sand had been crossed and some walls lowered. Hermione rubbed her hands together rather gleefully.

"How about we have a glass of pumpkin juice and a couple of treacle tarts to start the day off right?" she suggested.

Dahlia was still hungry but blanched at the thought of the vile orange liquid.

Pumpkin juice? Ew. She didn't think she'd take another sip of that stuff if she had been crawling through the desert for days and her tongue was swollen with thirst.

"I'll take milk," she replied diplomatically.

* * *

A/N: As I'm writing this, I see just how interaction heavy this story is, but the interaction is important because of what is upcoming. There needs to be some connection between the four magicians, some understanding and respect. It's going to be necessary to face what they face realistically. I fully intend to keep this story within the four day mark and for Dahlia, Artimus and Steede to return to their world. I think I am so focused on the interaction because otherwise, the story would feel rushed and there would be no reason for any of them to be that concerned about the others when danger arises. No reason for any of them to be heroes. Anyway, thanks for reading.


	16. Meetings

**Chapter 16 Meetings**

Dahlia gave Bluebell the day off and she and Hermione spent hours talking and getting to know a bit more about each other and their worlds. Dahlia was fascinated by Hermione's stories about her early years at Hogwarts and the adventures she'd had as a child. She faced death at twelve years old, experiencing dangers that would have made any adult go weak in the knees. She certainly was an extraordinary woman, witch or not.

"It must have been wonderful to enter a world like this one, where wizards and witches formed a cohesive society, and there was legal redress, ruling bodies, organization," Dahlia said wistfully. "There are no cities that are peopled by sorcerers in our world, no 'Ministry' to make laws and administer justice. It must have been so nice to be welcomed into such a society."

Hermione sighed.

"You'd think so, but the wizarding world is no utopia, Dahlia. It has the same difficulties, weaknesses and prejudices of other societies. There are separations in class, distinctions made between one type of wizard and another," Hermione said as they sipped tea.

"Types of wizards? What do you mean?" Dahlia asked her.

"Well, you have pureblood wizards and witches who come from purely magical bloodlines that go back for generations. They are considered the elite of our world. Then there are half-bloods who have one magical parent and one Muggle or non-magical parent, or . . . a Muggle-born parent, like me."

"Muggle-born?" Dahlia pressed.

"A Muggle-born witch or wizard is a person who is born from two non-magical parents," Hermione said, "basically, they are considered the bottom of the totem pole, although outright shunning is a thing of the past. Both of my parents are . . . normal. Neither of them have magic."

Dahlia frowned.

"Surely they don't discriminate against you, Hermione," she said, unable to believe that the wizarding world had this kind of class system when it was clear they were all gifted with magic.

"Oh, not now. I've 'proven' myself, and attitudes have changed quite a bit, outwardly," she said, a bit of ice in her voice. "But during Voldemort's reign, all Muggle-borns were targeted. He believed in pureblood superiority and that people like me had no place in the wizarding world. Almost as if we were abominations."

"Like we are to the clerics," Dahlia replied. "I guess this Voldemort would have hated sorcerers as well. We're always born to ordinary people. It is rare to have more than one sorcerer in a family, and rarer for sorcerers to have magical children. In fact, many of us never become parents because we are destined to outlive our offspring."

"How long do sorcerers live? Wizards and witches can live up to the age of two hundred. Some live a bit longer," she said.

"We can live five hundred years," Dahlia said, "and our aging process goes dormant when we reach the age of thirty, then resumes in our late three or early four hundreds."

Hermione blinked at Dahlia. So she would look as if she were only thirty for the next few centuries? Amazing. Witches and wizards had long life spans, but they still aged.

"That's a long time," she said softly, thinking such an existence had to be rather lonely and contained. They would have to find ways to conceal their youthfulness, possibly even fake their deaths and start new lives elsewhere, leaving everything behind. How hard that had to be.

"Yes. Yes it is," Dahlia replied. "But, we need the time in order to stop this war. Maybe we can figure it out."

"Why has it gone on so long, Dahlia?" Hermione asked her.

"Because sorcerers are not organized. Unlike you, we have no sorcerer societies. Our allegiances are tied to the land of our birth, and we are governed by those lands. There's nothing to bring us together. Everything about our magic requires us to be independent and self-motivated. Finklenook Institute has only been in existence for two hundred years and is the only place sorcerers congregate, but even then it is competitive and we look to advancing ourselves and . . . and being remembered for our discoveries. This makes us even less social, afraid our research could be stolen and compromised," the sorceress replied.

"But there has to be some unity. I mean, you do protect young sorcerers and train them," Hermione said, "and you said there are groups who fight clerics."

"It's purely on a volunteer basis," Dahlia said, "we recruit help and it isn't easy. Most sorcerers look at us as troublemakers and upstarts. They want to know why we look for clerics and blame us for the escalation of cleric attacks in the past few years. But it isn't us. It's technology. It's easier to communicate and find people now, and the clerics know how to use that technology effectively. But because of advances in science and technology and educational opportunities, our magic is more effective. Two centuries ago it was nearly impossible to create a functional living creature because we didn't have the knowledge. As the sciences advanced, so did we. Today, we can create better weapons, better creatures, and better forms of transportation. We're capable of standing up to the Antimage's forces now . . . if only we could organize and access Damar, two things we're unable to do at this point in time."

Dahlia sounded quite frustrated, her brow furrowed and her eyes dark. Hermione sympathized. She placed a cautious hand on the sorceress' shoulder comfortingly.

"Stay focused, Dahlia. Never stop believing that there's a way to do what needs to be done,' Hermione advised. "Many believed Voldemort could never be stopped, but he was. The clerics can be stopped too."

Dahlia nodded, and the two women sat in silence for a few minutes before Hermione got an idea, something that might improve Dahlia's spirits.

"Didn't you say you and Artimus originally came here to visit London?" Hermione asked her.

"Yes, although Artimus came along under duress," the sorceress replied, "he's not wild about England. If an area doesn't have something potentially dangerous snarling at him from the bush, it's not worth visiting as far as Artimus is concerned."

Hermione laughed.

"Well, how about I skive off work tomorrow and we visit London proper. That way your stay won't be a total waste. I could show you about," Hermione said enthusiastically. "A girl's day out."

Dahlia's face lit up.

"I'd love to! Thank you, Hermione," Dahlia said, then she frowned slightly.

"Somehow I don't think Mr. Snape will take kindly to you 'skivving off,' she said, wrapping her mouth around the unfamiliar term, although its meaning was clear as day.

Hermione gave her a sly little smirk that Dahlia immediately recognized as the smirk of a woman who knew how to 'handle her man.'

"Don't worry about the Headmaster," Hermione said confidently, "we're going to London tomorrow. Believe me."

* * *

When Artimus and Kreacher arrived at the stables, Poppy was completing her daily examination of Steede's leg, Hagrid standing by, petting the horse's flank. Steede was now turned in the sling and facing the back wall. He was to be adjusted daily to protect him from getting lesions. Artimus hurried in, concern on his face as Poppy put her wand away. She saw the anxious sorcerer and smiled. He had such concern for his animal.

"How is he?" Artimus asked without the courtesy of a greeting. But Poppy understood.

"His leg is coming along nicely, Mr. Rogue, although he was a bit skittish about being turned in the sling. We had to use a Levicorpus spell, and well . . . he didn't like it," she said to the sorcerer as Steede snorted.

"Didn't like it," didn't begin to describe how uncomfortable he felt. Hagrid just managed to avoid getting kicked by the horse's good hind legs as he struggled mid-air and the giant rearranged his bindings.

"In two more days he'll be off and running. It helps that he was in such good shape to start with. Obviously you take very good care of your animal, Mr. Rogue," Poppy said with a smile.

"I appreciate your help, Madam Pomfrey. Steede is very important to me," Artimus said to the medi-witch, lifting her hand and kissing the back of it gently.

Poppy drew her hand back, blushed and tittered as Artimus lifted an eyebrow at her.

"Oh my," she said, flustered, and grabbing her medi-bag. "You're very welcome, Mr. Rogue".

She hurried out of the stable, Hagrid looking after her with a broad whiskery smile. Then he looked at Artimus with twinkling eyes.

"Yeh made 'er day doing tha'," the half-giant said, patting Steede on the flank. "I got ter go. Got class. Steede'll be good as new, don' yeh worry 'bout it."

"Thank you, Hagrid," Artimus said to the huge wizard as he left the stable, greeting Kreacher on his way out. The old elf nodded at his acknowledgement. The Hagrid was always kind to him.

The moment Hagrid was out of earshot, Steede starting complaining.

"Artimus, I can't wait to get out of here. They . . . they horse-handled me, had me dangling five feet off the ground with absolutely NO support! Horses aren't made to 'dangle.' It was both frightening and humiliating," the familiar said with a derogatory snort. "I feel sullied."

Artimus grinned.

"Sullied? Oh, come on Steede. They were just helping you. You should be grateful. You know, a lot of horses in your condition end up in little tin cans with gravy," the sorcerer told him.

"Yes. Just another sign of human mistreatment. The least they could give us is a proper burial," Steede groused. "Instead, we're canned and processed through some smelly canine's digestive system. That's gratitude for you."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that Steede. When the time comes, you will be buried with honors, I promise you," Artimus told the horse, feeling a bit cold inside at the thought of losing him to time.

"Well, that's a small comfort," the horse snorted. "Where's Dahlia? She hasn't been to see me. I know I'm not that pompous construct she gallops around the realm with, but don't I even warrant a "how are you doing?" I mean, I helped save her life too, you know."

"I'm sure Dahlia will be in to see you, Steede. She's just giving us a bit of space right now while learning all she can about this world," Artimus replied, pulling out his wand and creating a padded bench to sit on. He sat down, reached into his pocket and pulled out a joint.

Steede's nostrils flared immediately as he scented the pungent marijuana.

"Artimus! Where on earth did you find weed?" the horse demanded of him.

Artimus ran his lips over the small, rolled cigarette, moistening it slightly before tearing off a bit of the twisted end and inserting it into his mouth. His dark eyes shifted to Kreacher, who moved a bit closer. He always had liked the smell of the herb when it was burned. His master Regulus Black smoked it from time to time, as did Bellatrix, although hers had a strange, acrid odor to it . . . as if something had been added. He didn't like that scent much at all. He was right not to like it as the additive was specially treated Deadly Nightshade which made the smoker experience hallucinations and visions.

"My concierge Kreacher acquired it for me. He works magic in more ways than one," Artimus replied, the joint bobbing between his lips as he pulled out a Zippo lighter and lit it. He drew in luxuriously, removing the joint from his mouth and studying it as he held the smoke for a moment, then exhaled.

A sense of peace and mellowness settled over him as Kreacher sniffed the air appreciatively. Artimus' gleaming eyes flicked over to the house elf for a moment, then he offered the joint to him.

"Have some?" he asked.

Kreacher's ears flattened at first as he looked at the smoking cigarette. No one had ever offered him any of the sweet-smelling herb before, and he slowly reached out and took the joint from the sorcerer, looking at it before inserting it between his lips and drawing in carefully, holding the smoke as he saw Artimus do. In a moment, his bat-like ears began to flutter and his eyes grew bright as he exhaled. He actually smiled as he handed the joint back to Artimus.

"I likes that," Kreacher said in a clear squeaky voice with no hint of croak at all.

Both Steede and Artimus looked at him in shock before the sorcerer nearly fell off the bench with laughter.

This was definitely good weed.

* * *

At seven o'clock precisely, Kreacher took Artimus to the Grinning Gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office. Both he and the sorcerer were back to their normal state, having smoked three of the four joints, then munching out on treats from Hogwarts kitchen. Kreacher made quite a stir among the other elves when he spoke to them as he collected food in a big basket.

"What happens to your voice?" one elf inquired as the others gathered around him.

"What? Nothing happens to my voice," Kreacher squeaked back at him, scowling as he winked out with the food.

The house elves looked at one another.

"Kreacher smells like the Filch," another elf said, shaking his head as the scent of weed lingered.

The elves returned to work preparing for supper. They weren't sure what Kreacher was up to, but they'd keep his secret. Besides, he was much nicer than usual. Normally, the house elf was bad-tempered and surly, snapping at the others to stay out of his way. He didn't do that this time.

Maybe he'd keep up whatever it was he was doing.

Artimus studied the Grinning Gargoyle and the deep gouges in the stone. He looked about and didn't see a door or an office

"Why are we here, Kreacher?" he asked the elf.

"This is the way to the Headmaster's office," Kreacher croaked, his bullfrog voice fully restored.

Suddenly, the gargoyle leapt aside, Artimus pulling his wand in reaction as he stared at the statue, which had gone stiff again. The wall it blocked suddenly grew a seam, the wall dividing into two sliding doors that opened, revealing a stone spiral staircase that slowly corkscrewed downward.

Artimus watched as Severus Snape appeared, standing stiffly as the staircase ground to a halt, the dark wizard facing the sorcerer, his black eyes flicking toward his drawn wand.

"Have you come to visit or to duel, Mr. Rogue?" he asked with a slight glitter in his eyes.

Artimus put his wand away.

"Your living statue startled me," the sorcerer said, eyeing the gargoyle, which stood unmoving.

"To the uninitiated, I imagine it would have that effect," Snape purred. "Come join me on the stairwell, Mr. Rogue. Kreacher you are relieved of your duties for the time being. You will be summoned when Mr. Rogue is to depart."

"Yes, Headmaster," Kreacher replied, bowing and winking out.

Artimus joined Severus on the landing and the spiral staircase began winding upward. He saw the gargoyle leap back into its original position before the walls closed.

Snape's large nostrils pulsated a bit as he stood beside the sorcerer. He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Mr. Rogue, you have the distinct odor of Filch on your person," he observed.

Artimus' brow furrowed.

"Filch?"

"Yes. Argus Filch. Our caretaker and Dungeon Master," Severus replied, arching an eyebrow at him.

"I haven't met him," the sorcerer said, looking upward at the high ceiling of the tower as they rose.

"By the scent of you, Mr. Rogue, I believe that despite not meeting him, you have acquainted yourself with his stash," the Headmaster replied, a small smirk on his face.

"Oh," Artimus said shortly.

So that's where Kreacher got the weed. Whoever Filch was, one thing was for certain . . .

He had great taste in marijuana.

* * *

A/N: So Artimus and Snape are going to have a little sit-down and Hermione and Dahlia are off to Muggle London on the morrow. What do you suppose will happen there? Heh heh. Anyway, thanks for reading.


	17. A Conversation Between Two Magicians

**Chapter 17 A Conversation Between Two Magicians**

Severus led Artimus into his office. The first thing the sorcerer noticed was the collection of pickled creatures, plants and whatever other godforsaken things Severus had floating in large mason-like jars on the shelves behind his desk. As a biologist, he was immediately interested in what he thought were preserved bits of flora and fauna. Hanging in the middle of the display was a portrait of an old man with long white hair and an even longer beard staring back at him, unmoving. He wore what looked like gold bifocals and had long, crooked nose that looked as if it had met a fist more than once. The painting's eyes were kind, blue and bright. Underneath the painting was a rather large plaque that read:

**Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore  
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Wizardry  
from 1956 – 1997**

Artimus looked up at the top shelf. On it rested a rather shabby, pointed hat that looked like a Halloween accessory that had seen better days. Artimus started when it seemed to bend in his direction, but he didn't say anything. It wouldn't surprise him if it were alive. No proper laws governing existence seemed to work in this place.

The office was illuminated by torches and had a closed in feeling, like the dungeons. It was furnished sparsely. There was a large, claw-footed desk with a comfortable high-backed upholstered chair behind it, and a smattering of hard wooden chairs and benches strategically arranged around the room. Books lined the walls, and the windows were heavily curtained. He noticed some smaller pull curtains higher up on the walls and could make out frames behind them. Hm, covered up paintings.

"Follow me, Mr. Rogue," Snape said, turning down a hallway that led to his private quarters.

Artimus followed him down the hall, passing several doors and walking into a large, sparsely furnished study, lined with even more books. There was another smaller desk, a sofa, two armchairs and a fireplace with a comfortable fire blazing inside the hearth. The chairs faced the fireplace and between them was a small table, and on the table a bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey and two tumblers. Snape gestured to one of the armchairs and Artimus sat down. Snape joined him.

"I hope you'll appreciate Firewhiskey, Mr. Rogue. It is all I have on hand at the moment," Snape said.

Artimus studied the amber liquor.

"I usually drink bourbon," the sorcerer replied, "but I'm feeling adventurous."

Snape nodded, picked up the bottle, removed the cap and poured two fingers of Firewhiskey into each glass, closing it and setting it back on the table. Artimus picked his glass up, sniffed it and nodded slightly. He took a sip, rasping appreciatively as he felt the burn coursing through his throat.

"Ah. This will do," the sorcerer said, as Snape took a sip of his own drink, then stared into the fire.

They sat there in silence for about five minutes nursing their drinks, Artimus also looking into the flickering flames. Snape wasn't much of a conversationalist it seemed.

"Mr. Rogue, do you smoke cannabis often?" Snape suddenly asked him, still staring into the flames.

"No, not often at all, Mr. Snape. Usually when I am overly stressed. There are detrimental effects involved with the recreational use of any mood-altering substance and I can't afford to be found lacking. I am an educator after all, and the undergrads at Finklenook are extremely sharp. I wouldn't have my position for long if I abused cannabis," he replied.

Snape nodded.

"That's good to know. Substance abuse would just add to what is already a difficult situation for you," the wizard said, turning his head to look at Artimus now. "How old are you, Mr. Rogue?"

"Forty-seven," the sorcerer replied. "And your age?"

"I am also forty-seven although I feel as if I've walked this earth more than a single lifetime. I'm certainly not as well-preserved as you. You appear to be in your late twenties," he observed.

Artimus sipped his drink.

"Sorcerer biology. Our aging subsides once we reach the age of thirty, then resumes when we enter the latter part of our third century. We live quite a long time," the sorcerer replied.

"Provided you aren't killed by . . . clerics," Snape purred, the firelight catching his black eyes. "I understand this is a kind of holy war."

Artimus scowled.

"There's nothing holy about it except the titles of our enemies, and their use of prayers to counteract our spells," the sorcerer replied.

"There has never been a full out battle between sorcerers and clerics? No organized attacks by either side?" Snape inquired.

"Only the clerics are organized, Mr. Snape. They watch for us in the mundane world and enter into the Magical Realm from time to time in hopes of surprising us," Artimus replied. "Sorcerers don't have societies as your kind do. We live in various countries and are rather individualistic. Usually a sorcerer is alone when the clerics descend on him or her. It is always an ambush."

Snape looked thoughtful.

"A very difficult situation. I imagine it is impossible to identify clerics, since they are ordinary human beings. Are there no spells to hide your presence? No way to dampen your magic? If they cannot identify you, they cannot attack you," Snape said.

"A concealment spell has to be maintained by another sorcerer. Attempting to cast it yourself doesn't work, because you are expending magic to try and cancel out magic. All it does is add more magic to the mix. Dampening spells are cast on dwellings, the main focus on the homes of young sorcerers, hospitals and schools as well as the young sorcerers until they reach the age of eighteen and are given wands of their own. As adults, they have to look out for themselves," the sorcerer replied.

Snape frowned slightly.

"That sounds very much like organization to me, Mr. Rogue," he said, pouring another glass of Firewhiskey. Artimus joined him.

"It is volunteer-based. There are small independent groups of sorcerers collectively called "Protectors" who actively engage clerics and protect young sorcerers once they are identified. I'm not sure of their numbers. I'm not a part of that group," Artimus said, bitterness in his voice.

Snape caught it.

"If you are so concerned about the war, Mr. Rogue, I would think you would make every effort to thwart the clerics. If you aren't part of the solution, then you are part of the problem," Severus said evenly.

"I do my part," Artimus said in a low growl.

"I still don't understand why you aren't one of these 'Protectors,'" the wizard said.

Artimus' countenance turned stony.

"My parents were killed because of the Protectors," he said darkly. "A new recruit removed the protections around my home because I was no longer on the premises. No one had informed him that the protections had to stay in place because my home was saturated with my magical signature. Usually a sorcerer who comes of age supplies his own protections on his or her family. But I hadn't yet done that. I was . . . distracted, angry and had left the country."

Artimus' jaw clenched tightly.

"When the recruit removed the magical protections, the clerics discovered my signature and came to my home, looking for me. I wasn't there, but my parents were . . . and they paid for having a sorcerer for a son with their lives."

Artimus blinked into the fire, his eyes glistening. Now Severus truly understood what was behind Artimus' vehemence this morning in the Room of Requirement. He knew what it was to have someone that was dearly loved . . . murdered and what it felt like to have the need for revenge coiled in one's belly like a snake ready to strike.

"I had just turned eighteen, and just received my wand . . . " Artimus said, the liquor loosening his tongue. "I went on . . . on a journey to discover my roots when my mother told me the man who raised me was not my father. It was difficult locating the area where he lived and I was gone several months. By the time I returned home, my parents were both dead and buried, and my sister living with relatives elsewhere."

Artimus made a small gesture toward the bottle on the table. Snape nodded and the sorcerer poured himself another small drink. He took a sip, then continued.

"I didn't discover the error of the Protectors until years later, but learning my parents were killed because of their negligence didn't help. It was quite an ugly scene when I first encountered a group of them after learning about the mistake, a group that had nothing to do with our particular protections. There was no way to find them either since they work independently. Sorcerer on sorcerer violence is rare, Mr. Snape, but believe me it can occur, and did. Luckily, no one died, although I was badly injured."

Severus just listened quietly as Artimus told his tale. It was clear to see that he needed to talk, and if the dark wizard was good at anything, it was listening.

"I've come to terms with the Protectors now, and realize it was just a mistake and that they are necessary. I have just never been able to bring myself to join them outright, but I have provided assistance from time to time if I've run across them in battle," he said softly.

Artimus was being modest. He had saved an entire group of Protectors when they had been outnumbered, caught unaware because of faulty information they'd been provided with. Dahlia had been one of the sorcerers he saved that day. He had overhead there were clerics in the North Woods and he and Steede followed at a distance.

It was a good thing he had followed, and that he was skilled with the crossbow because they were all in the process of being taken when he joined the battle.

"We all have our shortcomings, Mr. Rogue. At least you do something. All that is required for evil to prevail is that good men do nothing," Snape said.

"Evil has been prevailing for two millennia, Mr. Snape. I would like to see it end, and am working toward it. Access to Damar is a major difficulty because no one knows the exact location . . . "

Artimus' voice faltered and Snape immediately knew he was concealing something pertaining to Damar.

"I sense you aren't being completely truthful, Mr. Rogue," he said silkily, "the inflection in your voice tells me there is something you are withholding about this city. Something . . . important."

Artimus looked at him, not at all surprised that a man like Snape could immediately tell when someone was being less than forthcoming. After all, he had survived years as a spy. He had to have some people skills.

"I've been to Damar," Artimus said, "once under my own power and three more times when I was taken by clerics."

Severus blinked at him. Hermione had told him that once sorcerers were taken to Damar, they were killed. No one escaped. At least according to Dahlia.

"If that were the case, Mr. Rogue . . . you should be dead . . . er . . . four times over," Severus said, pouring himself another drink. "Or at least, you should be able to return to the city if you did it once."

"The first time I did it, I was under great emotional turmoil, Mr. Snape. I had discovered my parents were dead, grabbed my father's shotgun, waited for sunset and intended to go into the magical realm in search of the bastards, just in case they came through. I was immersed in hatred and longing to see them, imagining them in my head, blowing them away as the shimmer rose. Instead of passing through the puddle, I accidentally psychically transported. That's the only way I could explain it. I managed to kill four clerics, with the shotgun and by dropping stones on them with my wand before I was taken. Clerics are not allowed to spill our blood . . . that's saved for later. They took my wand and imprisoned me with several other sorcerors, then over the next few days they took them out one by one and they never returned. Finally, my turn arrived, and they stripped me, manacled me and hoisted me over a large tub. As I hung there, they opened my veins, letting my blood pour down . . ."

Snape leaned forward in his armchair now.

"And how is it you survived, Mr. Rogue?" he asked the sorcerer, who had a pained expression on his face.

"Magic," he replied shortly.

He fell silent for several minutes, Snape saying nothing for a while, then, "Do you mind elucidating? You said they took your wand and you were manacled. Did someone else save you?"

Artimus looked at him.

"Not someone else . . . something else. Something . . . inside me. I was losing consciousness, then suddenly there was a tightening, as if I were swelling up from the inside . . . a terrible pressure that made me feel as if I were going to explode. And I did, in a manner of speaking. A blinding white light burst from my body . . . it was searing and I screamed in agony and dropped into the tub of my own blood. Around me there was screaming too, and as my vision cleared, I saw the clerics, whirling and grabbing themselves, screaming in agony before they just . . . disappeared completely. Not everything . . . their clothing was still there, but the clerics were gone. My wounds were healed as well. I put on a set of robes and shoes, covered my head with the hood and left the citadel. Not one person tried to stop me or said anything to me. It was as if I were invisible. Damar's landscape is all terraformed and any water run-off collects in areas that are guarded during sunrise and sunset. I waited near one of the areas. The guards came as the sun was setting, but not one said anything to me. When I saw the shimmer rise, I ran through. No one pursued me," Artimus said, his eyes haunted.

"Quite impressive. Is this wandless magic normal in sorcerers?" Snape asked him, truly impressed. Defensive magic that can melt away enemies could be quite handy in a war.

"No," Artimus replied, the bitterness back in his voice, "and it's a magic I've never been able to recreate on my own. It only seems to manifest when I am in danger of losing my life. When I returned to the magical realm, I attempted to get into Finklenook and talk to someone, tell them what I saw. It was the only place sorcerers congregated and I thought someone should know what happened. Unfortunately you can only enter Finklenook if a person who either attends there or works there brings you in. I found some undergrads outside and excitedly told them what had happened to me, but they didn't believe me."

"No one had ever escaped Damar. We knew about the blood loss because sometimes a corpse was left where it could be found, as a message. Although my Bleeding marks were visible, they looked like old scars. I was accused of making them myself, and trying to appear to be more than I was. They refused to let me in, and buffeted me around before chasing me across the grounds, sending stones flying at me with their wands. They told me the only way I'd get into Finklenook was to be accepted there. I finally escaped them and returned to the mundane world, got a job and began my education in earnest, determined to get in. I was turned down four times before I was accepted, then after several years I was offered the Creations position. I never mentioned what happened in Damar publicly again, even when I was recaptured and escaped again. I couldn't prove the secondary magic I have and didn't want to put myself up for ridicule," Artimus said, his voice slightly thick now. "And I've never been able to get back there on my own."

"A very sad story, Mr. Rogue," Snape said rather coldly, "but that's the way it is. Truths others would rather not face are often given the designation of lies so they can be ignored in good conscience.

One unfortunate side effect of this practice is that men develop the habit of withholding the truth of a matter rather than take the risk of being ostracized. It is unfortunate because those who might take that truth seriously are denied access to it. In your case however, you weren't telling those undergrads anything they didn't already know as far as the Bleeding went . . . but they were unwilling to believe that you accomplished what no one else did, escape the clerics alive. After all, you were a wet-behind-the-ears young sorcerer and they were 'skilled and educated' sorcerers. Far more worthy than you of accomplishing so great a feat. So, they beat you down, Mr. Rogue. And you haven't risen since."

Artimus scowled at Snape now.

"Are you calling me a coward, Mr. Snape?" he asked him in a low voice.

Severus quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I suppose if I were, you'd be willing to prove you aren't by some physical display of prowess. Wrestling or fisticuffs, perhaps, since our magic doesn't work well against each other. You appear to be very testosterone-driven," the dark wizard said. "But no, I am not calling you a coward, Mr. Rogue. I am simply pointing out that your reticence to share your experiences can be detrimental to your cause. Not everyone will disbelieve you, especially now that you are an established and I imagine respected staff member of . . . Finklenook. You might inspire others to action if you make the attempt."

Artimus snorted.

"I'm no leader," he said.

Snape smirked.

"The best leaders usually aren't, Mr. Rogue," he replied sagely, then gave him a rather curious look. "Mr. Rogue, I am interested in this secondary magic you appear to have, a kind of 'preservation' magic. It sounds as if it works much like adrenaline. Have you looked into it?"

Again Artimus snorted.

"Oh yes, I did in a way. I did tell the Dean my story and he asked me a few questions. He was absolutely delighted to find out that my biological father was a Lemurian. You see, we have very little information about Lemurians except that they have magical abilities different from our own. All we know about them is they are very self-contained and don't use wands. He immediately wanted me to work with several other staff members to 'research' my abilities, citing that it would help me to understand my own abilities better while adding to Finklenook's store of knowledge."

"And did you do research?" Snape asked him.

Artimus looked at him as if he were crazy.

"Hell no I didn't do it. Mr. Snape, my ability only manifests when I am about to die. Now, do you really think I would allow myself to be brought to the point of death repeatedly just to see if lightning shot out of my fingertips?" he asked Severus.

For the first time, Artimus heard Snape chuckle. It was a surprisingly pleasant sound coming from one who looked so severe.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't, Mr. Rogue, although it does sound rather interesting," he replied.

"From where you're sitting," Artimus growled.

But he found he did feel as if some of the weight he carried was lifted. Snape hadn't once been dismissive of what he had to say.

"Now you know my story, Mr. Snape, how about telling me yours. Something not in the history books," Artimus said to the wizard.

"I'm afraid my tongue doesn't loosen as quickly as your, Mr. Rogue, although I daresay in your case it was a matter of need rather than alcohol. But I can tell you I empathize with your situation in one aspect. The sense of being . . . alone in your aspirations. Unlike you however, I was constantly under the suspicion of being a traitor, by both sides. Voldemort believed I was withholding information, and members of the Order of the Phoenix believed I was supplying it. Not a very secure position to be sure. I was under constant scrutiny . . . and more than scrutiny."

"I read that," Artimus said, "you were tortured and still didn't betray those who you were protecting."

Snape swallowed several times.

"To betray them would have cost me my life," Snape said quietly, his brows furrowed. "Heroism is highly overrated. The instinct to survive can often be erroneously translated to heroism under mitigating circumstances."

It was Artimus' turn to study the dark wizard, his eyes drifting over his gaunt, hawkish features and lank hair as Snape looked into the fire.

"So you mean to tell me that you don't consider yourself a hero, Mr. Snape?" the sorcerer asked him.

"No, I don't. I simply did what I had to do to bring about the required results, and survive the process," the dark wizard replied.

"From what I understand, you almost didn't survive, and wouldn't have except for your Headmistress," Artimus said, "so what happened? Did your sense of 'self-preservation' peter out? It would seem to me that you could have saved yourself during the commotion by just taking off and not exposing yourself to death. But you didn't. You stayed to the very end, Mr. Snape."

Severus didn't say anything, and Artimus' lip curled sardonically.

"Now who's not telling the truth?" he asked Snape, who seemed to flinch slightly as if trying to throw off the sorcerer's words.

"Your belief that you are not a hero, Mr. Snape, only proves to me that you truly are," Artimus told him soberly. "No man who wasn't dedicated to a cause would have gone through what you did, for as long as you did. You didn't give your life, but that's only because someone was there to keep you from falling into that long, dark night. So, save the 'self-preservation' line as being your driving force. I don't believe you and I highly doubt if many people do."

Snape sipped his drink.

"That's because the majority of people are idiots," he remarked, scowling.

Artimus simply smiled. He did agree with Snape. People were idiots for the most part . . . but not in this instance.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading. I had to estimate Albus' duration as Headmaster of Hogwarts. He was a transfiguration teacher, and Tom Riddle arrived in 1938, so I chose 1935 randomly to give him a couple of years in the position, but not too many.

A/N/N: Someone pointed out to me that Albus became Headmaster in 1956. I was unable to find that info, but edited the story to reflect that according to the HP Lexicon.


	18. Heading Out

**Chapter 18 Heading Out**

At eleven o'clock, Artimus departed Severus' environs after several very challenging games of Wizarding Chess, of which he managed to win two games. Snape won four and one was a draw. However, the game itself was chaos because although in the beginning, Artimus' pieces moved, after seven minutes they stopped and became regular pieces.

Severus' men were still animated however. This resulted in Artimus' pieces being pulverized every time Severus took one, and at the end of each game, Artimus had to withdraw from the table for seven minutes, so his pieces could animate and repair themselves. Snape found it interesting that only the pieces Artimus used lost their magical ability although his own pieces were in close proximity to the sorcerer.

The two magicians shook hands and Kreacher winked Artimus down to the dungeons, then retired. Artimus let himself in, then latched the door behind him with his wand. The fireplace burned low and the living room was dark. A glow came from the bedroom.

"Dahlia?" he called.

"In here, Artimus," Dahlia called back.

Artimus walked into the bedroom to see Dahlia in the four-poster bed, her hair pinned up and dressed in a long, silk nightgown, that softly accentuated her curves as she lay sexily on her side, looking at him, her full lips curved in a slight smile. Candles rested on the dresser and the mirror was covered with a sheet.

Hm.

"Did you have a nice visit with the Headmaster?" she asked him, slowly easing to the side of the bed, swinging her legs over the edge and rising, walking toward him slowly.

Artimus' eyes slowly drifting down her body, in the warm light.

"I enjoyed myself," he said as she walked up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"That's good," she said softly. She smelled of soap and cleanliness. Artimus wrapped his arms around her as well, pulling her soft body against his and smoothing his hands up her back slowly.

"I've been neglecting you," he said to her, kissing her forehead.

"I don't feel neglected, Artimus . . . especially right now," she replied, kissing his mouth.

Artimus made a little sound as those soft lips connected with his own, warm and sensuous. As she kissed him he slowly began to pull the pins out of her hair, letting them drop to the floor. The sorcerer knew Dahlia had pinned it up purposely because he couldn't resist letting it down. Anytime he came to her and her hair was pinned, it was an invitation to intimacy, an invitation he rarely declined.

Dahlia began to move against the sorcerer now, sliding her body against his and deepening her kiss, invading his mouth as her hair fell over her shoulders and half-way down her back. The sorceress shuddered as Artimus' hands slide down the small of her back and over her buttocks, clutching their fullness, pulling her against his growing erection and pressing into her gyrating body, letting out a growl into her hot mouth as he took over the kiss hungrily.

Dahlia let out a moan as the sorcerer roughly bent her back, hiking up her gown and pulling up her leg, wrapping his arm under her thigh and fitting himself between her legs, rubbing against her core.

Dahlia didn't have on any panties, so the front of his pants was getting quite oiled as the sorceress panted against him. He suckled her throat, his body moving as if he were actually riding her body, exciting and teasing her, pulling her thigh rather roughly now, yanking her against his swollen, cloth covered cock.

"Oh shit, Artimus," she breathed as the sorcerer's hand slipped between their bodies and found her moist flesh, his fingers rubbing around her clit gently as Artimus stared into her face, his eyes heated as he watched her reaction. He looked rather predatory, his eyes narrowed and mouth slightly open as he watched her flush, her head falling back, eyes closing as she gave herself over to his manipulation.

"Don't 'oh shit' me yet, Dahlia," he said to her, his voice heavy with lust as he slipped two fingers inside the sorceress, Dahlia gasping and her eyes flying open as he began to finger-fuck her, pressing his thumb rhythmically against her clit, feeling her juices coating his digits. "Save that for the main event."

He withdrew his hand, lifted her roughly and walked over to the bed, tossing her in so she bounced high on the mattress, then pulled out his wand.

"Off," he growled his clothes disappearing, Dahlia's eyes appreciative as she gazed at his nude body, the fine brown hair that covered his chest, the tight ridges of his abdomen, and the strong, thick cock rising proudly from its nest of curling brown hair, bordered by his muscular thighs. Artimus had a gorgeous body, and knew how to use it.

Artimus gripped the base of his organ and slowly climbed into the bed, straddling Dahlia's body high and staring down at her before slapping her cheek lightly with the head of his cock, the sorceress' hazel eyes going hot and hungry.

"Say 'ah' for daddy," Artimus breathed, moving forward.

"Ah, daddy," Dahlia responded, closing her eyes, opening her mouth and taking him in, applying her skills to the sorcerer, who gasped appreciatively as her soft, moist warmth and lush full lips encircled him..

Dahlia couldn't smile, but chuckled inwardly as Artimus hissed, "Oh shit, Dahlia!"

* * *

The next morning a very satisfied Artimus and Dahlia joined the rest of the school for breakfast, being winked to the Great Hall by Kreacher and Bluebell. Dahlia sat next to Hermione and Artimus sat next to Dahlia. Severus nodded to the sorcerer who nodded back as Dahlia greeted Hermione.

'Are we on?" she whispered to Hermione as she looked at the Headmaster's profile as he cut through a large, juicy sausage.

"Yes," she replied with a smile. "I have the whole day off."

Yes, Hermione had managed to make Severus see reason, arriving in his quarters after Artimus left. It hadn't been easy, because Severus came up with several things she could be doing for the school, but Hermione countered that a day wouldn't make a difference and that she hadn't had a day off in ages and had accrued some time.

He was seated in one of the armchairs before the fireplace as Hermione stood before him and told him what she wanted to do tomorrow.

"You are supposed to give written notice at least a week in advance," Severus snapped at her.

The Headmaster really didn't mind Hermione going to London with Dahlia, he was just being contrary for the fun of it. Hermione worked hard and was efficient. Besides, she really hadn't left the school for ages. She deserved a day off.

"Dahlia isn't going to be here for a week, Severus. Besides, she came here wanting to visit London. Since you inconvenienced them by breaking Artimus' horse's leg, the least we can do as good hosts is show her London," Hermione countered.

"Is Mr. Rogue going?" the wizard asked.

"I don't think so. He's not wild about London . . . or England I think. Dahlia says he finds it boring," Hermione replied.

"Yes. He mentioned he liked the outdoor life. Wrestling grizzly bears in the wild is probably more his forte," Snape responded, his lip quirking. "Very well. You may have the day off."

Delighted, Hermione lunged in and gave Severus a kiss on his stiff mouth. When she pulled away, the pale wizard licked his lips thoughtfully, arching an eyebrow at her.

"Tasty," he said silkily, then grabbed her, pulled her into his lap and snogged her soundly.

When he released the breathless witch he said, "Now, that's a proper 'Thank you' kiss, Headmistress. Make a note of it."

Hermione grinned at him and returned to her quarters. They didn't spend every night together, Hermione wanting the dark wizard to feel her absence sometimes. After all, why buy the goose if you can get the golden eggs for free?

Hermione was ready to make their relationship more permanent. She loved Severus and felt it high time they married. She might have to up the ante a bit to get the wizard to propose. She wasn't sure just how to do that, but she'd think about it.

* * *

Dahlia had Bluebell wink her out to the stables so she could have a short visit with Steede. When she told him she was off to London with Hermione, he snorted.

"Yes, that's right. Go have fun while I hang here like a slab of meat," the horse groused, feeling sorry for himself.

"Aw Steede, don't be that way," Dahlia said soothingly. "I'll see if I can get a candy apple sent out to you. Would you like that?"

Steede tossed his head disdainfully.

"You think something as insignificant as a candy apple will dispel the sense of abandonment I feel?" he asked her loftily.

Dahlia smiled.

" It's coated in sugar and it's an apple. Two things you looooove," she said in a sing-song voice, "of course it won't dispel how you're feeling, Steede, but it would be a little comfort, wouldn't it?"

"Well . . . maybe a little comfort. Fine. I'll take the bribe," he replied, swishing his tail and swinging slightly.

"Bluebell, you'll see to it after I'm gone, won't you?" she asked the house elf, who folded her thin arms stubbornly.

"The Headmaster says I am to goes with you and the Headmistress," she squeaked at Dahlia.

"But Bluebell, this is London. You'd . . . you'd stand out," the sorceress said delicately.

"No I won'ts," Bluebell said, "I goes invisible. The Headmaster says I must goes."

"All right. Maybe another elf will bring one for him then," Dahlia said as Bluebell nodded.

"Yes, I will tells them when we goes back to the castle, Miss," Bluebell said, smiling now that Dahlia understood she was to continue providing service.

After spending a few more minute with Steede, Dahlia and Bluebell returned to the castle. Dahlia was to meet Hermione in the Entrance Hall promptly at ten. The sorceress was wearing comfortable sneakers, jeans, and a beaded white silk blouse with flowing sleeves. Wooden bracelets graced both wrists and she wore the wooden necklace Bluebell had provided for her. Her hair was in one long braid, a little silk bow at the bottom. She was ready for London.

She had coaxed about two hundred dollars our of Artimus the moment they woke up the next morning, naked and curled around each other, the sorcerer smiling at her sleepily. She had used the "Shoop" on him last night and he still felt the afterglow. The "Shoop" was a very special sexual technique that Dahlia had thoroughly mastered but used sparingly. Just as she kept her outer body in shape, she also trained her inner body and her muscle control was phenomenal. Mama Gigi had introduced her to the initial muscle tightening techniques years ago, telling the young sorceress that the "Shoop" would make a man stay with her forever and that it was very powerful and not to be used unless she was sure she wanted a lasting relationship.

Before Artimus, Dahlia mostly had casual sexual encounters with men that she initiated. She wasn't looking for a relationship then, there was just too much to do. She never used the "Shoop' knowing that it could complicate matters when all she wanted were hot, quick little tumbles. When she finally did use it, it was on Artimus.

She wanted to keep him.

There was no love spells among sorcerers, but the "Shoop" was pretty damn close. A woman's ability to manipulate the several rings of her vaginal muscles independently of each other while a man was inside her took sex to a whole other level. The pleasure a man felt was nearly indescribable.

A woman with that gift could send ripples, flexes, pulses, suction, massage on any part of the male organ, top, middle or base. Artimus couldn't close his mouth or speak the entire time Dahlia used it on him.

He gave her the spending money without a single protest or complaint. Plus she had one hundred and fifty dollars of her own. She was set.

Hermione appeared, a broad smile on her face as she saw the waiting sorceress. Then she frowned slightly as she saw Bluebell standing beside her. She walked up and looked down on the elf.

"Bluebell, your service isn't needed. We're going to Muggle London," she informed the little creature.

"The Headmaster says I must goes," Bluebell responded as her ears flicked forward.

Oh gods damn it. She should have known Severus would do something like this. He wanted to keep an eye on them. Well, it wouldn't make sense to find him and complain. He wasn't going to change his mind.

"All right, let's go," Hermione said sourly, as Dahlia looked at her with a bit of amusement. It seemed the Headmaster hadn't given that much ground at all.

They exited the castle and walked across the grounds heading for the gate. Once outside the perimeter of Hogwarts, they could Apparate.

* * *

Bromin Glens, better known as "Dodge" on the West End, leaned against a lamp post and lit a fag, drawing it in and exhaling. The sandy-haired twenty-year-old's gray eyes flicked up and down the street before he straightened and began to walk. He was a bit grimy looking and pale, his sandy hair cut raggedly, his jeans low around his hips, the black spiked belt barely holding them up. He wore a dingy black t-shirt with a faded flaming skull on it, and a worn black leather vest. His lower lip was pierced with a silver stud and backing. He passed a number of blokes who called out to him from across the street, and he tossed his arm up carelessly, not stopping.

Dodge rarely stopped for much. He was a loner . . . but cool. No one knew how he lived, he didn't seem to have a job, but he had a one room flat, a cell phone and always had, money, cigarettes and booze. He had just shown up one day, and after kicking an arse or two to show he could hold his own, he was accepted. But he wasn't too friendly. He wasn't mean . . . but it was like he had something more important to do that stand about gawking. He was always moving, all over the city as if he were looking for something.

Most thought he was a criminal. A thief or a robber and a good one. How else could he survive like he did? But no one asked him what he did for a living anymore. All he'd reply is "why?" and those gray eyes would go cold and hard as if he wanted to kill someone. And the girls gave up on him too . . . he was an attractive young man who always had what was needed, but he said he was loyal to someone and to stay the fuck away. After he slapped one persistent little girly around, he was given a wide berth.

Yes, Dodge was loyal to someone . . . the Antimage.

He ambled up the boulevard, his Spiral medallion strung on a black leather thong as he passed through the London crowds, his eyes shifting.

Maybe today it would glow.

The watcher cleric could use some excitement.

* * *

A/N: And we're off! Yay! Thanks for reading.


End file.
